I rushed to get my application submitted to Kendall College prior to the April term beginning. I was quickly accepted, and now I’m playing the good ‘ol waiting game.  I wanted to start classes this month, but alas, there was not enough demand for the “I have no life” weekend program, so I must wait until July.

Student orientation is July 7 and classes begin the week after.

First on the docket:

  • Nutrition – online course
  • Sanitation – 2 consecutive Sundays – all day
  • Introduction to Professional Cookery
  • Stocks, Sauces and Soups

Perhaps they’re not the most exciting courses, but in a masochistic sense, I’m looking forward to getting back into the the work/study grind.

The on-site class schedule for 1st quarter, aside from the 2-consecutive-Sunday sanitation course (nice illiteration, hey?):

Fridays – 6 to 11 p.m.

Saturday – 2:30 to 7:30 p.m.

So you can see why I have nicknamed the program –  affectionately – the “I have no life” program. Starting in the 2nd quarter, I will also go to class on Thursday nights.

Really, this is part of the trade-off. If I seek a career in the food service industry, I have to adjust to a non-traditional work schedule. I’ve thought a lot about that, and it’s something I’m willing to do.  In a sense, I’m eager to do it so I can prove to myself I can.

I’m looking forward to blogging more regularly when classes begin.  It will be fun to share (or at least record for posterity’s sake in the even that no one reads this thing) my growing knowledge of the industry and craft of cooking.

And now, in honor of National Poetry month, a poem for literary foodies. This poem is in 18 parts, and I will post a few parts each day:

“Fruits and Vegetables” by Erica Jong


Goodbye, he waved, entering the apple.
That red siren,
whose white flesh turns brown
with prolonged exposure to air,
opened her perfect cheeks to receive him.
She took him in.
The garden revolved
in her glossy patinas of skin.


O note the two round holes in onion.


Did I tell you about
my mother’s avocado?
She grew it from a pit.
Secretly, slowly in the dark,
it put out grub-white roots
which filled a jelly jar.
From this unlikely start,
an avocado tree with bark
& dark green leaves
shaded the green silk couch
which shaded me
throughout my shady adolescence
There, beneath that tree
my skirt gave birth to hands!
Oh memorable hands of boys
with blacked-out eyes
like culprits
in the National Enquirer.
My mother nursed that tree like all her children,
turned it around so often
towards the sun
that its trunk grew twisted
as an old riverbed,
& despite its gaudy leaves
it never bore