No thank you, Culinary School of Cobb Webs

In my quest to become America's Next Top Best Chef I've been exploring some institutes of culinary education. I figured cooking schools were the most logical place for me to start my quest for knowledge about cuisine so I found myself online requesting information, registering for weekend workshops and taking tours.

The last tour of a rather well renown establishment just left me feeling raw. In fact, when the admissions agent called me this week to inquire about why I hadn't returned to complete the enrollment process I had to dig real deep not to scream and hang up.

As it is, I'd tried to block this particular evening I spent at the Culinary School of Cobb Webs out of my mind, but her call just rehashed the incident so I may as well share:

I arrived on time for a 5 o'clock appointment and find myself waiting in a muggy lobby for about 20 minutes. It felt like the air condition was set on Auto Steam. So it smelled more like a locker room than a cooking school, but I thought, well, this is the lobby. I'm sure it's pristine beyond those double doors. The kitchens MUST be spotless.

As I waited, I noticed some ornate sugar sculptures on display in glass cases, beautiful, really, except for the fine coating of dust that lined the cases and sculptures. I think: "Self, this is just their lobby"

Suddenly the young lady who called me to set up this appointment comes out to greet me, she's wearing a low cut dress with a hem line well above her knees. I could tell right away she was an avid smoker. I hate the smell of cigarette smoke.

She ushers me beyond a pair of glass doors, down a hall and into a room, then she immediately excuses herself to get soda. I'm casing the room and I see cobb webs lining the floor-to-ceiling window frame. In fact, underneath the tables is a thick layer of dust.

Then she returned with a bevy of questions and showed me a Power Point presentation. As she's forwarding the slide show, I realize - I'm HOT. I'm sweating enough to make my shirt start clinging to my arm pits and back.

I'm disgusted.

She takes me through the halls and stops at each classroom to explain in great detail the curriculum. I'm distracted. I see dust, old food that she refers to as student "projects" left out and it smells like my daughters preschool after the kids have just come in from running around outside.

I
AM
READY
To
GO!!

Eventually I got out of there. I won't ever go back.

Joy in the Morning

My daily routine has been upturned, altered, disrupted. For the last three years, it's primarily been my husband's responsibility to get our daughter off to day care in the morning. I picked her up in the afternoon. That's the way we rolled, unless Daddy was out of town, but recently Daddy's erratic work schedule has Mommy (a.k.a. me) pulling both shifts.

It's been a hard adjustment. I'm used to getting up and getting myself ready in utter silence, then pulling out of the garage with just enough minutes left to make it to work on time. But suddenly I have the pleasure of tantrums and mood swings in the morning. All from a pint-sized assailant. She's not used to getting up as early as I do so she's rather delirious and unreasonable when I turn on the lights and crank up Arthur on PBS.

She doesn't want to wake up or get dressed. She's never quite satisfied with the ensemble I've selected and very vocal about the matter. After a few weeks of foolishness I pushed her bedtime up, thinking if she was more rested, she'd be calmer. Although she woke up more easily, the wardrobe was still a problem. I'd find the outfits I selected tossed aside and her digging through her drawers for something else. So I just stopped trying to pick out her clothes for her. At first, I'll admit, I fought it with statements like:

"No, you can't wear that shirt, I already put this shirt out for you."

"Baby, those shoes are not appropriate for April, you can only wear boots in the winter, it's too hot for those now."

And I'd win the little battle and lose the war as she squirmed, mumbled, grimaced and dragged her mommy-coordinated self sluggishly all the way downstairs, into the car and to the day care.

Then, one morning, I just gave in. I let my 3-year-old wear skinny jeans, furry snow boots and a light weight yellow blouse, accented with a faux fur-collared sweater.

The minute I said, "Fine what shoes do YOU want to wear?" Her face lit up and she picked out the boots and matching furry sweater. Who cares that it was 70 degrees that day? She beamed all the way to school. It was a victory.

Since then she's been making her own wardrobe choices and it's really very entertaining. Most days she wears lace church socks and her hair bows are misaligned, but she's happy and I'm amused. Which means we both get a little joy in the morning.

Pretty Wings...

I'm a little obsessed, excited and impatient right now. Maxwell's new single is making me crazy. This song has cast a spell on me and it won't be broken until his album Black Summer's Night is released on July 7.