Pastry School: Day One

So, my pastry/baking kitchen classes run FIVE HOURS long! From 8:30 a.m. until 1:30 p.m., three days a week, including SATURDAYS. 

That doesn't include the three days of baking lecture, baking math, and two hours of sanitation. Yup, that's right. Until Christmas, I'll have no life.

Today was hard. For starters, can I share just how long it's been since I've been up at 6 am? Two, I'm not used to a rigid schedule. And three, I'm definitely not used to being a pack mull. My book-laden backpack must have weighed 50 pounds -- and felt like bricks were being added with each of the eight blocks I walked from my apartment.

I know. I shouldn't complain. My grandfather (and probably yours) had to walk 13 miles to school, all of it uphill, barefoot. With nary a tart, scone, or French baguette to stall his tummy rumblings.  

Yeah, well, at least Gramps didn't have to worry about getting stuck in the culinary department's commercial elevator. I face that very real possibility on the day(s) I'm assigned to drag the kitchen's trash down to the first floor dumpster.

"Pull this big door open like this," explained "Chef," my instructor, "then pull this gate across to step inside. Be sure to close them both COMPLETELY before you push the button to go down or you'll probably get stuck inside."

Then he dropped the other shoe. "When you're ready to come back up," he added, "step inside, close the doors, then push the button. It will ring the alarm back up here. As SOON as someone hears it, he or she will push the button, and the elevator will rise."

Yeah, I can see the holes in that scenario. Like the rest of my 12-member class deciding that NOW is a good time to visit the potty and grab a smoke.