Ye Old Kitchen

I work as a student cook in one of BYU's cafeterias. Last week, they moved out of their old facilities into a brand new building. Feeling slightly nostalgic, and like it should be documented, I brought my camera to work and took pictures between preparing the last ever meal served in the fifty-year-old Cannon Center.
There were four of these big walk-in lockers--one for dairy, eggs, and milk; one for fresh fruits and vegetables; one freezer; and one for leftovers, cheese, and meat.


I was excited to see all the crazy equipment in an industrial kitchen. To the far left are the steamer ovens (which scare me--stuff comes out not just hot but wet, too). One of my first days, I asked what the other things were called, and the woman just shrugged. "Pots," she said. I could fit inside them; they boil water really fast. People would get up on a stool to stir the thing to the right of the photo, and stir using this huge metal spatula-looking thing, making them look like a witch over a cauldron.


Baskets for serving bread and pass-through warmers for transferring the food to the serving lines.
A better view of a pot.

Spices. Today, in the new Cannon Commons, we were missing some ingredients (including parsley), and someone told me to go to the old building to see if I could find them there. I walked in--the lights were off, it smelled a little rotten. There was still a case of tomatoes on the floor, and some brown bananas. I went into the dry storage room--which felt a little like a scene from Wall-E. Things were mostly cleared out, but there were some bottles and jars of things left behind on the shelves. Alone in the big, empty building, I picked over the leftovers. I never did find parsley. Who runs out of parsley?

(When I got back to the new building and told one of the chefs that I couldn't find it, he said, "That's okay, parsley doesn't taste like anything anyway. Maybe like weeds. Wait--not like weed, I mean like weeds.")


The dish room.

A great big scale in the bakery. The new building doesn't have one--there will be a central BYU bakery instead.

Bakery.
Where I spent a lot of time making hashbrowns and scrambled eggs on the grills and bacon in the ovens (in the back of the picture, by the red garbage can). There's salt on the floor because it got greasy and slippery.

Paul never spoke gibberish

I have a class on Medieval manuscripts this term. I am sitting in the basement of the library working on one of the assignments for the class, designed foster appreciation for how said manuscripts all had little differences (as all were copied by hand), so modern publications ("critical editions") of the stories and texts they hold have to carefully consider each version. The assignment? Look at 15 versions of the Bible and create my own critical edition (of a chapter, not of a whole Bible).

I have probably taken the assignment too far, but the more I find out, the more fascinated I am. At this point I could probably tell you more than you ever wanted to know about the early English translations (I'm no expert...but like I said, I think I've taken things too far).

I was searching for more background on the King James Version (a revision of the Great Bible, based largely on Tyndale's [or Tindale's] translation, which in turn was based on Luther's German translation, Erasmus' Latin translation, and Greek) when I found that, in its original introduction, the self-described "Translators of the Bible" give a layman's explanation of translation. "There were 5 languages to the Greeks, all the rest were tongues," they explain. "This was not gibberish but people speaking their own minor dialect where everyone believed that their own tongue was sacred and must be used for liturgical purposes. Paul never spoke gibberish."

Thank you, translators.

They later write about "the Grecians being desirous of learning," and how they "were not wont to suffer books of worth to lie moulding in Kings' libraries."

Shopping Revelations

Today I was working on an assignment in the library. I was on a computer in Periodicals, and had to move to be by the books I needed access to. I sat down at the new computer, and when I touched it, noticed instantly how dirty it was. (Isn't that on the list of jobs for custodial workers? Clean the keyboards? And door knobs? I really don't think it is.) I then picked up the mouse and wiped it off on my shirt.

I wiped off the mouse.

This evening, I went to buy some groceries. I was at the self checkout, filling my reusable bags with my groceries, when an item wouldn't scan. An employee came over to help. "Are those the organic granny smith apples?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, as a an image of what I just might be becoming flashed through my mind--a fussy Niles Crane type who carries a handkerchief to wipe off computer mouses and who won't touch disposable plastics. Have I mentioned that I carry a fork and spoon with me so that I don't have to throw away plasticware? And what kind of a person buys organic granny smith apples, each individually banded with a skinny label that might as well read, "I Think I'm Better Than You"?

In my defense, they were only ten cents more per pound. And I did buy the cheap bread. Even though one of the ingredients was corn syrup.

The District. Of Colombia.

A couple weeks ago, I went to visit my friend Caroline in Washington, DC. Caroline and I met in Mrs. Thackery's kindergarten class. Now she goes to George Washington University. Except this summer she's working for GW housing and being a high-powered intern (seriously, I saw her on the job) and a Texas representative's office.

And that's where she was the first day I was there. I went to go visit her (after a slight detour caused by not reading the name of the metro stop I was getting off at). We tried to jump ahead of the line so Caroline could give me a tour of the capitol, but even the VIP badge that someone in her office came up with didn't cut it. I think they would have let us in if were both ten years older and dressed in power suits. I decided I don't want to be a congressional aid. Ever. Then I went to kick it at the Supreme Court for awhile, and took this elevator picture. No justice sightings.



That night we met up with Caroline's interior-design-major friend and ate Indian food under a lovely pavilion on the GW campus.

Caroline tripped twice that day--the first time in front of some important representative. The second time, she skinned her knee (through her pants). She shows her wounds.


Indian food under the pavilion was followed by 7-11 Ben and Jerry's ice cream and watching The Princess Bride in Caroline's apartment.

The next day, Saturday, we hit the Newseum. This is part of their exhibit on the Sept. 11 coverage.

While we were there, Caroline got a phone call from the university informing her she had two new roommates. Moving in. Right now. She was more than a little surprised.

We headed back, but stopped to watch skateboarders. Caroline pointed out that then never actually land tricks. To be fair, we saw a few good landings. At least three.


I ran to Trader Joe's for picnic items and cooked them up while Caroline tried to make space for the new roommates. We packed up the picnic and headed to Wolf Trap--an outdoor theater--to watch The Gondoliers. The picnic was wonderful. Chicken and sun dried tomato bratwursts on wheat rolls with caramelized onions and hummus; zucchini; cherry tomatoes; various sweet things.
It started raining shortly after intermission. We had lawn seats and taken the shuttle up, so we couldn't keep watching and we couldn't leave. We ran for cover under an overhang of the main building and chatted for the rest of the show. After that, Caroline introduced me to the first Bourne movie (which lived up to her high praise).

Sunday we went to church. Harry Reid is in the same ward. I felt like that should be in a guide book: "See representative Harry Reid at church! Sunday at 10:00...." It would certainly be an off-the-beaten-track tourist destination.

The Mission Call (and how it came, not how it was delayed)

I don't have any pictures. I'm sorry. If you need an image, just picture me sitting on the couch with my parents and my aunt, and a few cellphones out for the benefit of my sisters in California. 

The call never came in the mail--my mom got someone in my ward who knew someone else to get another one printed off and he picked it up and then we picked it up from him...the details aren't too important. I didn't want to believe I would actually get it until I held it in my hands. And I did. And a couple hours later, I opened it.

 Korea Seoul West. I was, well, shocked when I opened the letter and read it--as trite as that sounds, that's what best describes it. It took about a half hour for it to start to sink in. 

So, I guess I'm going to Korea. Not only had Korea not once crossed my mind, but I know next to nothing about Korea. It is Asian. They eat rice. There are those traditional, loose-fitting, dresses that I've seen in pictures (I'm sure there will be a picture of me in one sooner or later), and kimchi. The Korean War happened in Korea. And I know that North Korea is, to quote a Korean business man I met once, "A very scary place." 

I have felt a little overwhelmed since finding out last night. I keep thinking, "I don't know how I'm going to do this." Korea seems very far away, and I feel like there is so much to learn--the (difficult!) language, but also figuring out how not to commit the cultural equivalents eating off my knife and asking my hostess' weight at a dinner appointment. 

So far, I have learned to spell "Seoul."

What it comes down to, though, is that I am going for the same reasons I would go anywhere else, and teaching the same things I would teach going anywhere else. And those things, ultimately, are what matter.

He said what?

An amendment to the last post: it is officially getting to me.

Anyway. Last night I thought I'd check the website of a guy I used to date. I thought he was a pretty cool guy, and I still wonder what he's up to even though we haven't been on speaking terms since we broke up about a year and a half ago now. He uses his website to post creative projects--songs he's written, videos he's made, essays, that kind of thing. Last night I saw he had a new "album" of songs posted, and as I was giving it a listen, I discovered there was a song about me on there.

I'm not including a link for a few reasons. One of those is that he uses a few words that...well, they aren't a part of my vocabulary. He really isn't trying to remember things fondly. Nonetheless, when I first heard the song, I was kind of pleased in a weird way--I mean, has anyone ever written a song about you? Also, it...illuminated some of the things I've been wondering about.

Still, though, I seriously wanted to respond (and the chance to defend myself!). I thought about the whole thing as I walked to the store and bought some groceries. On my way back, I started writing my own little song.

Now, you have to understand, I'm not angry or spiteful. During everything with this kid I never wanted to say or do anything I would regret later on. And I held to that philosophy as I laid on my bed writing out lyrics. The product was kind of a mix of Jewel and Bright Eyes and as I sing through it I hear some nice guitar work in my mind. I also started working out a plan to get him to hear it as I ruminated over things--"If I got lots of people to link to his site from where it was posted..."

I don't actually play the guitar, though--at all. I thought about the people I knew who did and couldn't think of any one person who had both the ability to compose and play those intense solos I was imagining and the time/availability/willingness to work on the song--and who I would be comfortable doing it with ("No, see, I know you're having a hard time making all those words fit, but that's how I feel...").

So then I thought, "I know, I'll ask Conor Oberst to do it." He's a stranger (reduces awkwardness) and my song totally sounds like something he would do. And maybe that would solve the delivery problem, too. He has lots of songs about New York. He probably lives there. The guy-I-formerly-dated now lives in New Jersey--"Hey, Conor, that was awesome. Now would you mind just skipping over to Morristown and knocking on his door? Thanks, that would be great."

The Mission Call

It's lost.

That's pretty much why I don't have it yet. But it's my own fault. It's also really complicated, but people have been asking me to explain. Here's how it went down.

I got an email from my stake president June 14 saying my papers had been reviewed, and a call was sent out (stake presidents have access to the status of mission papers). It should arrive Wednesday.

On the following Wednesday, nothing came. I would be going out of town Thursday afternoon until Sunday night, so even if it came the following day, I would miss it. My mom convinced me to talk to the post office. My roommate drove. A nice employee told me if I put a hold on my mail, it wouldn't be delivered and I could pick anything that came up the following morning from the post office before leaving town (he was sympathetic and really nice about it--and I think I got a little more help than normal).

Thursday morning, my mom had come down to Provo to drive me to the airport. We go to the post office and talk to a very accommodating employee who looked for my mail--but had to report that nothing had come. But she then showed us the route map for my address and told us to go hunt down the carrier.

We go and patrol the eight blocks for a good...twenty minutes, at least. I'm ready to give up. We find a carrier--but he was a block outside the correct route. Some more patrolling, and we find the right carrier. "No mission calls today," he says.

My mom and I head to Salt Lake. En route, she gets on the phone with the bishop. He does a bit of searching, and we figure out what went wrong:

I had written the wrong mailing address on the papers. I had moved like a week before I filled them out, and was two blocks off.

He does have the date I'm leaving, though: September 10. Apparently, he gets the date as a confirmation that the call was issued.

I go out of town. And a bunch of other things happen...well, mostly my mom sending people to look for the address I wrote down (which, despite what the post office said, doesn't exist).

That's where things are. The Missionary Dept can't send out a duplicate until something like two weeks after the original. I think we're waiting for that...although something else might happen in the meantime, I don't know. Pretty much I don't care where I'm going. I don't care as much about finding out, either--every time we chase down a postman, I get my hopes up but then nothing comes of it. So I'm cool just waiting and not thinking about it.