▷S3E3 (BONUS EP Preview) Michele Thomas Reads "Under Construction"

English

Dec 6

This is just a preview of our Patreon-exclusive bonus episode. You can listen to the entire episode, and watch the full video, by becoming a supporter at the Podcast Lover level. Just visit the link patreon.com/mododibere in your web browser to sign up and unlock this bonus content.

"Under Construction" is a memoir essay about building a home out of food, in the projects of East New York and at the International Culinary Center. The author, Michele Thomas, is now editor and columnist at Modo di Bere Magazine.

Hear Michele's full conversation with host Rose Thomas Bannister on the Modo di Bere Podcast, Season 3 Episode 2.

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This bonus episode preview references strong language as well as strong drinks. This is an excerpt of a memoir essay called "Under Construction" by Michelle Thomas, now editor and columnist at Modo di Bere magazine. (gentle music) - Fucking gingerbread, Chef Jurgen said. Jack did open and sweaty after teaching classic pastry arts for six hours. His pale, staining uniform almost blending into one of the long white tables in the chef's office where he sat, stretching. Colored pencils and his mop of black hair were all that set the associate director of the pastry department, apart from his surroundings. "What's crooked?" I asked a moment earlier, entering the office and passing along the other side to the table towards the printer. Since joining the International Culinary Center's Education Department, I adopted this as my customary greeting for the chefs. Chef Xavier, also sweaty but from the culinary department, glared impatiently from the computer station at the other side of the office. He'd swept into my office moments earlier, smelling like salted chicken to tell me that the printer was jammed, jammed again. Lightyear again, he was in the middle of a double teaching shift, which meant that he had about a 90 minute break between classes. He needed to print a handout for his class and he needed time for a few cigarettes outside. There was no time to wait for the IT department. "I'm not IT," I told him. "I always told them that." "But you know the computer," he said. "I don't know this shit." "Yes, chef." I opened a few panels and cleared the errant paper. Streets and wearing deers told me that Xavier would be happy again. "Okay," he said with a smile and a clap of his hands. He rolled his body toward the printer to wait for his papers. I turned the door back to my own work, but the soft browns and threads, and greens of Jordan's drawings stopped me. I sat down beside him, my body suddenly heavy. I wouldn't be able to avoid Christmas with its jingling bells, snowy rom -coms, and warmly pictured family gatherings for much longer. I'd have to figure out something to say when asked about my holiday plans. Roasting chicken I would eat alone didn't sound so festive. Neither did saying I was estranged from my father and sister and have been since my mother died. Gingerbread houses always made me think of my mother. Christmas always made me think of the family I used to be close to. Almost everyone in the pastry department could draw, but Jurgen's lines reminded me the most of my mother's. I could see the formal training in both. The light strokes, swift moves slowed down as the confidence in their line placement grew. I looked at Jordan's hands, filling in buildings and windows. My mom used to make gingerbread houses, I said. "Oh, nice," you said in his lilting, Austrian accent in English. I instantly felt stupid. I wanted to make them understand, "gingerbread," and that's how I say it with a capital G as a time an event, maybe even a place, and at its simplest and purest, a housing project, an inversion of the one in which I drew up in East New York.