Culinary School/Baking & Pastry Class...kitchen...food...stuff

First of all, what if I changed my blog name from, "The Soap Box" to "The Donut Box"? The tag-line could be, "You might not get exactly what you want, but whatever you end up with will still be pretty damn good." ...because it is a donut. And even if it is a cherry filled jelly donut (puke) it is still good...because it is still a freaking donut. 

I'm sorry that the quality of these pictures is so awful-- I used my phone to take them. Also, please take note of the sweet hats (and general awkward getup) that the girls (on the fourth picture down) are wearing. Yes, I too get to look that awesome during class! I know, we're pretty much the coolest kids around town. Or not. Let's just say that there are very few fashion statements being made at culinary school. But everyone looks equally ridiculous, so it is (kind of) OK. 

I don't know about you, but donuts speak to me. Mostly they just say, "Eat me right this second, Lauren." But there is so much more to these delectable treats than fluffy deep fried goodness covered in sweet buttery icing.

 If a donut could talk, what do you think it would say? You don't know, do you? That is because you never listen to your fried treats. Shame on you. Well, if a donut could talk, I think it would say, "There's a God shaped hole in all of us..." And then it would follow up that comment by saying, "Just kidding--there is a donut-hole shaped hole in all of us...suckaaa!" And of course they would make a silly joke like that--because donuts are funny. That is what they want to tell you--that they are funny. That is why they make you so damn happy. We really should listen to them more.

I know, I'm sorry--that was a lot of pictures of donuts. You should see me during class...I am always taking 500 million pictures of my food. (But hey, I'm not posting them to Instagram. So I'm not that person. Yet.)

I always try to rearrange the food in a semi-appetizing way before I take 20 pictures of it, because at the end of the semester we have to make a portfolio of everything we have baked and include pictures of it all. That is why I try to take good pictures--so that my portfolio doesn't look like crap. And since my phone takes pretty awful pictures, I already have that working against me. Consequently, I have to take quite a few pictures before I get one semi-decent photo.
 Well, my classmates started noticing and commenting on how many pictures I was taking. So a few weeks ago I started joking that I did it because I was OCD and I needed everything to be absolutely perfect or whatever. Well...apparently the joke really caught on. Because now everyone in my class thinks that I am actually legitimately OCD. And they make comments about it fairly often. This past week when we were making donuts, one girl commented on how perfect one of my donuts looked. And then another girl said, "Oh, it's just because Lauren is OCD. You probably rolled that dough out 20 times just to get a perfect shape, didn't you, Lauren?" I laughed and was like, "Yeah, totally." I just played along because I don't really care if they think I'm OCD. But inside I'm just like ...guys, I'm not actually OCD. I was just kidding. Everyone always jokes about being OCD?

    I don't know though, maybe I am. At least a little. But aren't we all a little OCD? 

    Anywho. Moving right along.

   Baguettes are not as funny as donuts. You don't have to talk to them to find that out.
You can tell just by looking at them. 

    Well, and they're French. So they wouldn't talk to you anyways. 

Oh look! There I am with my little baguette baby. So, I kind of think baguette could be an adorable term of endearment for a kid.
 Like, "Oh, come here mon petit baguette..." My poor kids--they're totally going to hate me.

FREEEEE

The power that whipped cream once held over me is gone.
That's right people. 

Let it be known throughout the world that the power of the whipped cream has been broken. 

You hold no power over me any longer, you Readi-whip whipped cream. 

For too long your creamy white bottle and red cap tempted me with promises of silky morning coffee drinks.

 As I passed you in the aisle of the grocery store on my way to the half-n-half, you would would mock me incessantly as you told me that my life 

(or, my morning coffee) would be tasteless--nay, meaningless--without you. 

And Like the young and impressionable shopper I was, I believed your lies.

I bought (quite literally) into the lie that cream and sugar in my coffee was not enough. 

But no more. 

I know. I am as surprised as you are, dear friend. I wasn't expecting this either. 

In fact, it has thrown me quite off guard.

I didn't know it was possible to feel this way...or not feel this way...about it.

But there was no denying the fact that, when I put it on my coffee this morning, the only emotion I could muster up was a lackluster/halfhearted "eh".

If I am being honest (and when am I not the epitome of honesty?) I was completely shocked by my own lack of emotion towards to the fluffy goodness.

My first thought was actually, Whoa--hold up. Is this how it feels when your ex-boyfriend/girlfriend calls you, or you pass them on the street, and you realize that they no longer evoke some deep sense of attachment or emotional connection in you...and when you think about your history and the memories and moments that were you shared...surprisingly enough, all you feel is a vague sense of "meh" which is quickly followed by this amazing sense of empowerment that makes want to scream "screw you, you little *** ***! I don't give a *** about your sorry--but quite adorable--little *** anymore!"

(Yes, I thought all of that. I know, my mind is kind of amazing.)

My second thought was, dang. I really need to get my language under control.

I mean, I am only imagining what that might feel like. 

Seeing as how I've not actually been in a relationship, it is all mere speculation.

However, given my history with whipped cream, I'm pretty sure it could be said that I was in a relationship with that stuff.

Actually, it isn't that beautiful. But thanks!

So I've heard this song played on the (Christian) radio station a few times in the past week or two. The first time I heard it, it made me laugh. The second time it I heard it play, it just pissed me off. But that was mostly because I was just in a shitty bad mood.

The first mistake this band made was naming their group,"We As Human".  It just sounds so dumb and like they're trying way too hard to have a clever name. They should have called themselves, "We're Cliche But Know How To Rhyme Like Nobody's Business". 

So, this is the part of the song that most annoyed me (the most)

But isn't it beautiful
The way we fall apart
It's magical and tragic all the ways we break our hearts

So unpredictable
We're comfortably miserable
We think we're invincible
Completely unbreakable
Maybe we are
Isn't it beautiful
The way we all fall apart 

First of all, when I first heard the guy sing this song, I swore he was saying "tragical" and not "tragic all". So in all fairness, he gets two points for not actually rhyming magical and tragical. 

But dear Lord almighty...besides the complete unoriginality of this song, I have an issue with what it is saying, as well. I mean, it's not super deep or anything, but I'm just like, um...no...actually, it isn't beautiful when I fall apart. And there sure as heck isn't anything "magical" about it. When I fall apart, there are tears, boogers, excessive consumption of chocolate in all forms, and breakdowns that leave me exhausted and frustrated with God/myself and feeling confused.  Falling apart is not fun. It isn't pretty. I don't find it magical or beautiful when I'm in it. God can and does absolutely bring redemption from the most heartbreaking situations...but I just hate when Christians slap cheesy phrases on the the most difficult things we can experience in life. Like, "comfortably miserable"? I'm sorry, but what the hell. Honestly, I don't even know what that means.

I'm sure that whatever message this band was trying to convey is great. But the way they went about expressing it was anything but magical. In fact, it was quite tragic all the ways this song broke my heart. It was just so dang predictable and left me feeling pretty miserable. Truly, only God could take this broken song and make it something beautiful.

Something...New. And Kind Of Boring.

I need to write, and I need to stop stopping myself from expressing what I am thinking about and feeling. Most things I write won't be funny or especially deep...but I need to write--I want to write--for me. So the tone of this blog might be slightly different for a while. It might be a little bit more of me just...talking about my days and/or my week.

-----

It's been a long week. It's been a week full of changes and unknowns and long days, late nights, and not enough sleep. I've single-handedly financially supported the chocolate industry this week (the chocolate-covered raisin industry, to be precise.) I've consumed both too much and too little caffeine, not spent enough time with God, and said too many goodbyes and not enough hellos. I procrastinated too much about important things and used so much bleach yesterday that I lost all sense of smell and taste for 3 hours (I scrubbed my floor and tub and tile within an inch of its life.) Oh, and I've eaten a lot of gummy lifesavers. Can I just say...who the hell decided it was a good idea to add 39857 cherry flavored lifesavers and only 5 orange flavored lifesavers, to each bag? It's like when you buy a can of mixed nuts, and you get 3 pistachios, 13 almonds, 8 mystery nuts, and 5000 peanuts. No one one the damned peanuts!!!

so, earlier today, I went to a park near my house to sit and think and try to talk to God. I've been putting off talking to God. It's just like every time I sit down to talk to him....I just don't know what to say. But it is because there is so much to say. I just don't know where to begin. But I'll probably expand on that later.

In other random news... I accidentally sent a text message to the dad of the kid I nanny for (instead of my friend who had just texted me saying she had dyed her hair) which said, "Send me a picture!!!" This was my first week working for this family...so talk about awkward. I quickly realized what I had done, and tried to correct my mistake by saying, "Oops! I sent that to the wrong friend. Unless you just died your hair?" Ha ha ha...so smooth, Lauren. So smooth. Or not...because I had to send another text to correct myself yet again when I realized I had said "died" and not "dyed". Face in my hands

Manna

OK. So I don't really know what the heck this is. Sometimes it rhymes...other times...it doesn't. If I were a poet, I would call this a poem. If I were a musician, I'd make this into a song. But I'm me. So this is just a thing.

 

  Manna 

When I can't see 

How you're going to provide for me

What you've given me for today
I always try to save
To ease the pain of a different day

I think that perhaps I should wait
Hide the manna away
To be prepared and ready
for the hunger of a future day

                           But it doesn't work like that                             

          Because what you've given me for this specific moment        

               Is not what my soul will need          

                           To be sustained tomorrow                            

The bread doesn't last

The grace for yesterday's pain 
When saved, rather than engaged
Won't help ease tomorrow's troubles

Yet I starve myself in the moment

In order to have a sense of control 

For a more secure tomorrow

Because I'd rather have the assurance 

Of a stale crust stuffed into my pocket

Than trust that you'll provide

Fresh grace to my soul every morning 

Because it's hard to trust

When I'm hungry in my soul so much

That you'll continually provide what I need 

So instead I keep asking to see 

Exactly how you plan to provide for me

While I'm still swallowing my lunch

So I try to save it

Or refuse to partake in it

Afraid you didn't mean it 

When you said not to save it

The Israelite

In my life

Is me 

Well That's Awkward

Here's a little story for you.

Valentines Day 2013.

It was rainy and overcast the whole day--which reflected beautifully the state of my cold, dead, heart.
Per usual, I spent the day dressed in black and writing hateful notes to the general male population.

Just kidding (Hopefully obviously)

Around 8pm, I was home alone. I was sitting on the kitchen counter, looking out the window, and talking to Jesus. I leaned against the side of the refrigerator and thought,  "Aw, this is almost like leaning against a person and/or Jesus. Except that this is a refrigerator. And it is cold, hard, and shiny. Whoa...is this how Bella felt when she hugged Edward?!" (Okay, so I didn't actually think that last part.)

As I was contemplating the differences between leaning on Jesus and leaning against a refrigerator, I heard a knock on the door. I hopped down from the counter, told Jesus I'd brb, and walked to the door. But before I could I get there, I heard a car door close and someone drive away. When I opened the door, there were flowers sitting on my doorstep. I knew they were for me. How did I know, you ask? Well, let's be real...I'm pretty awesome--of course they were going to be for me.

They were pretty amazing flowers. Along with the flowers was a note.

Lauren, 

"You are beautiful my darling, you are beautiful. Your eyes are like doves" (Song of Solomon 1:15)

There was some scribble of a name at the bottom. But I was pretty sure I already knew who they were from.

I mean, there is a pretty short list of people who A.) recognize/appreciate my awesomeness B.) know where I live, and C.) would give me flowers. But, I couldn't quite read the signature. I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to be able to read the name or not...but again, I was pretty sure I knew who they were from, anyways. I wanted to say thank you, but what if they weren't from this person? Then I would look so stupid for thinking they were. But what if they were from this person? Then I would look like such a jerk for not saying thank you.

Risk looking stupid...or risk looking like a jerk?

A few hours of intense contemplation passed.

Would I rather look stupid or look like a jerk? Which is worse--to be perceived as a jerk for not saying thank you, or exceedingly vain for presuming to think they are from this person? What if it's not that person? What if it is someone just being super creepy? That IS a borderline creeper verse. How are eyes like doves, anyways? What if someone is about to kill me? Have I come across any strange people the past few weeks? I mean, I have had some weird encounters with people...

I decided I'd rather risk looking stupid than looking like a jerk. So, I sent the person I thought the flowers might be from a text message saying, "Thank you?"

During this time, I sent a text message to my younger sister and a few friends that she was hanging out with and to my best friend, telling them that someone had left flowers on my doorstep. I also explained who I thought they might be from. Now, I had a note from this (unnamed) person who had given me flowers two other years on Valentines Day. I was determined to figure out who the flowers were from, so I found the note from the previous set of flowers from this person, so that I could compare the handwriting.

Now, before you think I'm super weird from saving a note from two or three years ago, you should know that I sometimes just save random stuff. I have a corsage that I saved from my sister's prom that her boyfriend gave her. I mean, she was going to throw it away, but I thought it was pretty, and I guess that's what you do when you don't have a (love) life of your own? That's not that weird, right? (Total transparency--I still have the corsage in some random box at my parent's house.) Okay, I don't know if that particular story really helped my case against me being weird, but the point is, I save things. So, I as I compared the notes, I noticed that the handwriting was pretty different on each one. But, there was a few years between each note--and I figured that handwriting can change. Right?

But, I knew it had to be from the person I thought it might be from. I mean, the note that I was reading from a few years ago from this person said, "I may note be able to get you flowers ever year, but every year that I can, I will."

A little bit later I receive a text from a random number asking if I liked the flowers.

I was a little creeped out, but I decided to roll with it.

Me: Ew, who likes flowers?
Creeper: Well usually pretty girls do.
Me: Aw, creepiness--just the way to a girl's heart.
Creeper: Well, compliments didn't seem to work

I then proceeded to ask who it was. But they didn't answer. I went to sleep. I had a good laugh the next morning when it finally dawned on me that my sister and her friends were hanging out together the night before...and know where I live. So, I asked them. Sure enough, it was them.

Well, I guess I don't really have eyes like doves. Dang it.

Oh, and dear person who didn't give me flowers...you've missed two years now. I'm keeping count.