My Final Week in America, TECHmunch Tampa 2012, and Vanilla Almond Cake

Vanilla Almond Cake

This is going to be a bit of a long post, so buckle in.

Guys, this has been A WEEK, but I didn’t expect the week leading up to my departure to be anything but A WEEK. An amuse-bouche of the crazy endured these last two weeks: I had thousands of dollars stolen from my bank account by some creeper in North Florida who was subsequently caught on camera, which is hilarious; Connor the Cat becoming really sick and urinating on my bed, carpet, couch, me, the world, which was somewhat less hilarious; my first food blogging conference; and of course the end of my job.

So now I’m officially unemployed. I actually typed “homeless” by accident which is probably just an indicator of what’s to come. But maybe not, because if I’m this good at omniscience and fortune telling then maybe there’s a way to monetize that and not be homeless after all. But if I don’t become homeless, doesn’t that mean I’m actually a terrible oracle? Now I’m confused. Or I could at least secure a place with a band of traveling gypsies; that’s still a thing, right? And does this mean I would have to wear billowy silk shirts and a magnificent gold hoop earring? I really hope not. Silk is so 1996 and I don’t look good with gold jewelry because I’m not Mr. T.

Vanilla Almond Cake

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Trading Paycheck for Passion

Socrates claimed to have been pushed toward the arts and a life of philosophizing at the beckoning of a reoccurring dream, urging him to pursue his craft and perfect it. Pacifying these unrelenting dreams he paved the way for future philosophers and intellectuals alike. Being the moral and ethical powerhouse that he was, he opposed the popular, skewed ideologies in favor of his own which eventually got his ass tried for heresy and executed, but blame him for being passionless you cannot. I, too, have fallen into the hands of a relentless reoccurring dream which played out in such detailed, vivid sequence it’s hard to tell whether it was, in fact, a dream or if I’d slipped into some magnificent accidental acid trip.

Each night I’d find myself in the same place as the previous: working in a large industrial kitchen composing intricate recipes, orchestrating cutting-edge kitchen equipment to whip, mix and knead my concoctions to perfection and feverishly taking notes on each process. I would be in the middle of folding stiff, shimmery whipped egg whites into rich chocolate soufflés or writing a reminder to never, ever experiment with parsnips again before I was sucked back through the looking glass by a nefarious alarm clock that smugly spit me back out to reality where a monotonous workday awaited. I didn’t know what my exact job was in these dreams, but I was cooking and writing and was noticeably thrilled to be doing so.

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