Our house doesn’t have any diplomas on the walls. Not a one. This is despite one of us having ever-advancing medical degrees, and the other one of us having spent her entire adult life doing one sort of schooling or another. Chris has some sort of high-ranking military commendation medal that looks like a pog, and is cemented to the bottom of one of his cupholders with what is probably ancient Diet Coke. His reasoning is, “If they want to reward me for doing something good, they should give me more money or more time off. A ribbon is in no way helpful.”
I used to think it was just him venting against his military obligation, but now I know that he’s just not so fond of random “objects of recognition.” And his medical license is in his wallet, crumpled behind a laminated membership card for the World Rock Paper Scissors Society.
But despite his devil-may-care approach to flaunting paperwork, I really want to have, in my possession, my culinary school certificate. So I have to finish the last three weeks of school, 9 months after everyone else finished.
It’s not my fault that I’m finishing them late. The school changed the dates a few months before I started school, then didn’t even tell me about it until I had moved to town and was ready to start attending. When I showed up to tour, a few days before school was scheduled to start, they were like, “oh…nobody called you?” Awesome. So I had to get married on school time, and make up my time the next time it was offered—now.
So I’m back in school, and back in my godforsaken, hideous chef pants. The ones that are somehow 4 inches too short, despite everybody else’s fitting normally. And I’m painfully jealous of my instructor’s awesome Euro-chef pants, which are slim-fitting, more than long enough, and don’t appear to be made from the same pounded cardboard material as mine. Also, the pen/thermometer holes on my chef’s jacket are too small. Everybody else can fit pens and thermometers in theirs with no problem. And they’re all by the same manufacturer. It’s like the whole outfit has been short-sheeted, and I just can’t figure out how to undo the prank and get the rest of the space back. I know I look ridiculous. I know I do. But what else can I do? Just show up in jeans and a tube top and be like, “just CHILLAX, school admin. Keep your shit together for a sec and I’ll make you a pie or something.”
Anyway, so while this post is in no way entertaining or food-related, it is a space-holder until tomorrow, at which point I’ll teach you about MEAT PIE. And how I stole the recipe from an ex-boyfriend, whose father has recently been convicted of stealing Indian grave artifacts and being in possession of a golden eagle. I know, right? I found all this out while I was internet-stalking to see if the recipe had been posted online yet. How the hell do you maintain possession of a golden eagle? And WHO ROBS INDIAN GRAVES? Has he never seen a horror movie, like, ever?
But it’s damned good pie. You’d be wise to check back tomorrow night.