I spent a year at pâtisserie school in Paris. It sounds romantic, no? But there were ups and downs, much like the city itself, with its dove-grey rooves and ornate balconies but also park guardians that blow their whistles and kick you off the neat lawns.
The decision itself was one that made me over-the-moon happy. Follow your dreams! But be ready to wake up at 5.37 a.m.
My first day, in a black and white uniform inc, high heels. (What? For baking? No, for the theoretical classes. They also made me re-learn Maths, History and Geography, and English.) (Sigh)
I wished that someone would have written me a guide on the best schools, or even on removing stains from white aprons…
Finally, I found myself in a tiny Franco-Japanese patisserie. For the past year, they have been teaching me how to make meringues, passionfruit mousse and sticky caramel. Here, I am incompetent, clumsy and tall, apparently lacking in common sense. I get burned a lot. But they are patient and kind. And I love it, despite the early mornings. (I wrote about that calm self-acceptance here.)