humility and cakes

I am invincible.

Today I worked as a "runner" in the cafeteria, those people who magically appear with refills whenever the mashed potatoes run out. I find cafeteria workers to be very helpful, about 3 seconds too late. There are two "hot boxes" where the food is stored. Upon running out of Philly cheese steak, I opened the first hot box to find some more. I didn't find any, so I closed the door to open the other hot box.
"What are you looking for?" Asked a helpful cafeteria worker, whom we shall name Mrs. White.
"Cheese steak," I said.
"It's in the other hot box," Mrs. White said.
Well, yes, I know that now that I've already looked in the first hot box. Thank you. I'd appreciate it if you could just read my mind and tell me which hot box the food I need is in before I have to open anything.

Once, we ran out of the chicken cacciatore. I looked in the first hot box, and when it wasn't there I went to look in the second one. (Sounding vaguely familiar, eh? So goes my employment.) Suddenly a helpful cafeteria worker whom we shall name Mr. Black approaches me.
"What are you looking for?" He asks.
"Um...I don't know what it's called. Is it jambalaya?"
He looks at me like I've accidentally mistaken his son for a girl. "Noooooo."
Mrs. White comes up from behind. "What's going on?"
What is this, a national emergency?? Just let me look in the second hot box!
"She's looking for something, but she doesn't know what it is," Mr. Black says, like they're going to have to call a meeting of all helpful cafeteria workers to solve this mystery. Oh, come on! You know what I'm referring to. It looks just like jambalaya, it smells just like jambalaya...use your deductive reasoning!
"I know what it looks like," I say, trying to imply that if I could just look in the second hot box I would be able to get it myself.
"What does it look like?" Asks Mr. Black.
"It's got..." I motion with my hands.
"Oh," he says. Yes, "got" is a very descriptive word. He reaches in the second hot box (oh, is THAT where it's kept?) and pulls it out.
"So what's it called?" I ask.
"Chicken cacciatore," says Mr. Black.

Later while I was wiping down one of the lines, two students walked by. "Oh, jambalaya!" One of the students said. "My favorite."

On my first day washing pots and pans last week, the supervisor told me to take the trays to the conveyor belt. I didn't know where that was, so after turning on the water to fill up one of my tubs, I picked up the trays and approached Mr. Black. "Where do I put these?" I asked.
"Once they've been cleaned, you can put them on the cart."
Evidently he didn't know about the conveyor belt. "Yes, but isn't there a place to put them--"
"Once they don't have any junk on 'em anymore, there's usually a cart here to put them on."
Okay. Yes. I know I have to clean the trays. I took the trays back to my station and set them on the counter. "I'm not stupid," I mumbled to myself. Then I turned around and realized I hadn't put the stopper in the sink, so the hot water had been running down the drain for a good 7 minutes. I felt very stupid.

You know you have the Holy Spirit in you not when you speak in tongues or bear good fruit, but when you gain spiritual insight out of a Backstreet Boys song.

I don't care who you are
Where you're from
What you did
As long as you love me

Today while my accounting tutor explained cost pools and cost drivers to me with the analogy of cakes made at a bakery, I decided to drop out of college and go to baking school. Alton Brown graduated from the New England Culinary Institute, and I can graduate with an associates degree in baking and pastry arts.























I think it's sad that Asbury College students need signs to let them know what certain substances are. Just in case you weren't aware, that brown soupy stuff on the ground is, indeed, mud.