Supposedly these are called conversations because a play was on called conversation when they had already made some Pativiers. Pativiers are the same thing but flatter and wider with diagonal rounded slits...and in honor of the play they made a petit version of the Pativier, now dubbed conversation... I dig this dessert - it's a pastry puff - so the top and bottom are crispy with butter locked in so it's all crispy yummy evil...but then - the bottom is lined with strawberry (my personal choice), and then spiraled with creme d'amande - or almond creme. A smattering of royal icing is slapped on there and then the lattice is snappped on. It's hella yummy. If not a bit adult...
I'm really baffled, how 18 people can be given the same damn recipe. YET everyones turns out so different. One technique is demonstrated - I mean shit it's cordon bleu ne c'est pas? And still 18 baking sheets come out of the oven and everyone is a different colour, flavour, look and length - some even burn - and my shit - it always takes the longest to cook. Even my food likes the blasted heat. Everyones had already cooked/burned/cooled - and my still were only 90%cooked. **shrugs** i'm having an easier go of it.
The chef doesn't have a penchant for torturing me anymore. And I'm stronger for having gone through what I did...That divastatic focker - I still cant hate the focker - he taught me a lot...not just about the baking game, but about my inner mettle that I won't fold under a little pressure. Also, I didn't have to resort to insouicance or ass kissing in order to get a grade. i could say there was SOME integrity behind my shit. A lot of those girls have been baking for their fathers, jobs, families for over a decade - so why the FUCK does my shit look just as good as theirs more than half the time???
Our classroom is so fetid - I hate that whole drainage situation. That's just how freakin kitchen sinks are - hella ICKS. I guess we're all more adjusted. I feel a little rushed but not really - I struggle a bit coz my head is in the clouds smokin love cheeba with cupids. Soooo, it's a damn good thing I have passions and pursuits of my own. Boredom breeds insecurity and insanity. Looking back, I dated so many critical motherfuckers. Your hair is cut weird, why do you dress like that, why don't you work out, how come you have to be different than everyone else, you're too thick...whatever this whatever that. I listened to the fucked up shit for so many years I ate myself into a corner. The painting suffered. The writing suffered. I suffered. So time passed. Hair changes, careers change, cities change, I changed. I also pretty mutch looked at solitude in the face and said I'll be you - I'll be solitude. Alfie said I was the most datingest girl. I did go on some trifling ass dates and even thought i could fall in love with an emotional midget and otherwise - that was my own funny haha on my own brown ass...I volunteered for those lacerations, but those days are done. I picked up my paintbrush nudged forward by a soul twin or two. I got 'involved' with myself. I decided that I was going to be kind to myself which in turn would allow me to be kind to others. I was going to get detached from material possessions and emotional chains. I wholeheartedly believed I was destined to be alone, and that my purpose was to learn as much as I could and write as much as I could. Writing, writing, writing --- books started losing their spines, inkwells drying and I wrote and wrote and wrote. I couldn't stop. I would go on coffee dates with butterhorns and lunch dates with Himbos but that's just whatever...
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