Coming home

In which things are the same, but I am different.

Spring in Seattle.

It’s been two weeks two and a half weeks since I came home from Ireland, and it’s incredible to me how, as soon as the plane landed in Seattle, it’s as if the entire past three months never happened at all. It’s quite jarring, really, to have had your days be so packed and intense and focused and then come home to stillness, quiet, slowness, sameness.

When I wrote my last post a thousand years three weeks ago, it was the night before my final exams, which consisted of a practical cooking exam and a written exam. In the practical exam, you cook a three-course meal — starter, main, and dessert — plus whatever bread you are assigned the day before. I definitely drew the short straw in the bread lottery as I was assigned the white yeast bread, divided into one loaf and 50g rolls. The bread isn’t hard to make, but it’s the most time consuming, and absolutely screwed me time-wise.

The weekend before the exams, my household took turns practicing our final meals. I finished mine — a beet hummus with flatbread, Persian lamb stew with rhubarb and basmati rice, a green salad, and a Tunisian orange cake — in 3 hours and 7 minutes. I made it out of the actual final in 4 hours and 30 minutes, the first 2 or so hours of which I actually enjoyed myself — we had a whole station to ourselves and the teachers helped us, gathering up our dishes, offering coffee and water — a true luxury compared to our usual cooking days. I cooked along, knowing I was running behind (the lamb took a while to trim) but not too worried about it. But then, that goddamn bread. When I mixed it it didn’t feel great — I think I held back a bit too much water — and by the time I was furiously measuring and shaping 8 50g rolls I knew I was, well, fucked. I was also stationed right next to a deep fryer, so as I was in the last harried stretch I was sweating profusely and covered in wafts of grease, all the while wondering if I would just collapse? Or drop dead? From stress? Or a heart attack? By the end I was flinging things on plates, just wanting to be finished already— fortunately, I had already practiced my plating and knew how I wanted things to look, and I did manage to land a perfect quenelle of crème fraîche next to my cake, which even I will admit looked beautiful — but my flatbreads were rubbery, my mint haphazardly chopped, I didn’t taste anything which is a huge no-no, and my bread sucked (which, humiliatingly, I had to hand-deliver to Rory and Darina, the owners of the school). I felt like I’d been hit by a French-fry truck at the end of it, but at least it was done.

The written final encompassed essentially everything we’d learned over the previous 12-weeks including identifying and providing recipes for herbs, salad leaves, vegetables, spices, and various animal parts (like a gigantic cow shank). I think I did…OK? There were definitely some parts that I outright bombed, but in the end, I did the best I could.

My final meal, cake close up, reunited with Micah, cooking lately, finding beauty, focaccia trials.

Our going-away dinner, in which Rory and the teachers cooked us a farewell meal, was a few hours after the final. I had been looking forward to this evening before I even came to Ballymaloe — imagining I would feel so triumphant, so ecstatic and accomplished. And I did feel those things (especially after it was announced that myself and another student tied for the highest score in the wine exam, go me!) but mostly I felt overstimulated, a little crazy, and completely, fundamentally spent. I Irish-goodbyed out of the dinner, had some wine at home by myself, and watched Derry Girls on Netflix whilst the rest of the students partied it up at the local pub. I know! How lame!

After 24 hours in Dublin and a very long flight, I was at the curb, waiting for Damien and Micah. When they arrived, I went into Damien’s arms and did not emerge for at least 5 minutes. I did not cry, I did not talk, I did not move. I just burrowed myself into him, squashing my face into his chest, overcome with joy and relief. And Micah. I’m so happy to be back with my sweet, old girl.

I’ve been drifting through life the last few weeks, with no real direction or path in front of me. I won’t lie, it’s unsettling and a little scary. I’ve had a regimented schedule (and income) for decades and now…I’m puttering around, baking, cooking, kind-of gardening, taking endless walks, avoiding people (sorry!) and trying not to completely freak out about WHAT NOW, because I really don’t know what now. I start dreaming of doing something with food and floral design and then the panic of but what about money and what about your “actual career” starts to thrum. So I go on to LinkedIn and immediately get off because it’s just a garbage dump of ads and “thought leadership” (LOL) and “thrilled to announce”-ments. AI AI AI optimize optimize optimize generative generative generative performance performance performance productivity productivity productivity rockstars rockstars rockstars…like what. even. is. this?

There has to be something else.

So yeah, I’m adrift. But I’m keeping myself from sinking by noticing each and every flower petal on each and every blooming tree, by kissing my aging dog on the head, by perfecting my focaccia, and by saying to myself the phrase that Damien said to me whenever I would freak out to him on the phone.

“It’s OK, baby.”

It’s OK, baby!

Thanks for reading,

Antonia