The Measure of My Powers by Jackie Kai Ellis

Author:Jackie Kai Ellis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Appetite by Random House
Published: 2018-03-06T05:00:00+00:00

A RECIPE FOR CLARITY

1 cup muddy water

Place a cup of muddy water in a quiet place. Wait for as long as necessary for the silt to settle to the bottom and for the water to become clear. Repeat when clarity is needed.

LES PARISIENS

{2011–2013}

AUCUNE CIRCONSTANCE NE RÉVEILLE EN NOUS UN ÉTRANGER DONT NOUS N’AURIONS RIEN SOUPÇONNÉ. VIVRE, c’est NAÎTRE LENTEMENT.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

EARLY IN THE SPRING OF 2011, G AND I ARRIVED IN Paris, and I began to teach myself French. I was using books and podcasts but mostly learning from being surrounded by the language. Yet it wasn’t the French that I had nearly failed in high school, where conjugations of subjunctive verbs dominated conversations, rendering them tasteless and practical, like dry bread. No, this French was juicy and warm, and solitary words painted sensuous stories, like the words “peach” or “woollen” do in English.

I would wake before dawn each day, shower, put my wire-framed glasses on, and pull my hair back into a tight bun, neatly set at the nape of my neck and parted precisely to the right side. I gave little attention to a mirror other than to check for anomalies. I put on what my hands could decipher in the dark, not wanting to disturb G’s sleep: socks, jeans, a T-shirt. Then I packed my clean and pressed chef’s uniform into my bag before walking under purple skies to catch the metro to pastry school.

It was among my favorite times of day, sitting on a rustling underground train early in the morning. I would use the reflections in the inky glass to spy discreetly on Parisians, sleepy-eyed with elsewhere thoughts: of previous nights, stressful workdays ahead, or of a budding love or waning marriage. I loved to guess about these while I sat listening to French lessons on my phone and reading the daily subway papers, looking up words I thought looked important or pretty to say aloud. Ensuite, next. Pousser, to grow. Sympa, cool! Interdit, forbidden.

I always arrived early at school to avoid fighting with the boys over the only change room, hoping to bypass the awkward accidental walk-ins that happened frequently. The school always smelled of a mixture of freshly applied French cologne and pastries baking in the oven first thing in the morning. Every day there was something different to taste, left over from classes the day before, and I always hoped it would be pain au chocolat or gateaux aux marrons glacés (I am still partial to them).

Each week we welcomed new students, chefs from around the world at the top of their profession who came to our school to be taught by the teachers who had attained the sacred titles of Champion du Monde or Meilleur Ouvrier de France (or MOF’s as we would call them for short), one of the highest designations for trades professionals in France. We in the longue durée or extended program spent three months seeing chefs come and go, clowning around, feeling a bit like an elite

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