Forced to be a part of the world around her, the writer retreats to the kitchen.

I haven’t written much, in my usual acerbic way, about my new school experience. Partially to blame is the fact that this is a school where I actually have to pay attention, and in which the practical application of my lessons actually matters to me. But that should not get in the way of a good ol’ fashioned Maille bitching, I don’t think.

Today’s ire is brought to you by zaftig European Indians, completely oblivious Native American Indians, and my complete loathing of both categories. **DISCLAIMER** I have said before, but I will re-iterate here, that my hatred of people is blind. Be you black, white, grey or blue, male, female or a combination of the two, your ignorance and obnoxious habits are the same and I’ll hate you ’til I’m through.

Anyway. It goes a little something like this: On Thursday mornings, I wake up at the absolute end of twilight to arrive at the Adelaide campus at (thusfar) whatever is above the asscrack of dawn. The bullseye tattoo on 20-something chicks, let’s say. I belligerently order my grande bold, shuffle off in the terrible weather toward school and , upon arrival, shovel myself into my totally awesome and extremely flattering cook’s uniform. It’s not that I’m not a morning person. It’s just that the mornings of late have been a bit of a gauntlet. Every day brings different wintry mixed weather, and walking around in it at 6 am may as well be setting up canp in the bog of eternal stench.

There are way.too.many.people. in my demonstration class. From the guy whose facial hair is so meticulously groomed, I’ve decided they’re like warning signs;  knives shaved into his face; to the epitome of obnoxious right out of high school girl who’s just a little overweight and whose in – class quips are so painful, I might have to rank them above my Brazilian wax (seriously, in Theory yesterday, I had to listen to her go on and fucking on about some friend of hers who has a boyfriend, but is jealous of her because she has sex. Did you know she was making out at six? Thumbs up!); to the very confusing and confused boy named Philip whose name I have no trouble writing here because I am not sure he knows where he is half of the time, it is a class of every flavour. Most of them are Bogey flavoured.

In their case, however, I am willing to concede that I have simply cast my first impression red light too harshly upon them and there is the slightest chance that I am wrong about them. Which brings me to the two people who hoisted me from the depths of No Writing to bring you this.

Scene: An Industrial Kitchen filled with culinary hopefuls. The instructor barks out instructions in a barely intelligible New Zealand accent, his arms flailing excitedly. Panning left, the camera catches a glimpse of a 300 lb Indian man, arms crossed in front of his vast mid-section. He is in his mid-sixties, and ignoring what is being said in favor of bothering his Chinese ‘partner’.

S___: Vat is soup?
C___: Chicken?
S___: Lend me one knife.
C___: No, no. You bring your own!
S___: Chef! Lend me one knife.
C___: Go, go. Go back to you session.

Long-suffering C____ is the unfortunate who agreed to be S____’s demo partner.  I learned recently that he used to go on the Tibetan exploration vacations that only the very rich could afford.  He even started talking about the current wave of demonstrations concerning Tibetan slaughter.  It seems such an enormous problem, so very far away. But anyway, he’s a smart guy and shouldn’t have to carry that eating machine around.  I saw him yesterday wheedling at C____ to fillet his fish for him.  I can’t figure out how he’s made it so far.

If anyone’s read this far, I am surprised.  Unfortunately, you’re getting a bum deal as I’m just going to abruptly end this here.

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