Week Twelve (and some more!)

Let’s start with the best bit, shall we? At the kickoff of my last week at Ballymaloe, I cried over a plate of duck fat. In anticipation of final exams and my imminent departure, I’d felt anxious and fragile all day, and by the evening, I was about to shatter. You’d think I’d give myself a break, but no; I chose that moment to practice jointing and cooking the duck I planned to serve in my practical exam. After placing the bird on a chopping board and sharpening my knife, I began making incisions, and I regret to say that while my head knew what to do, my hands did not. In short, I botched it. The girls could immediately tell I was upset with myself, but they let me pretend I wasn’t until one of them blurted, “Go on then, let it out!” Let it out I did, laughing at myself as my tears rolled onto the mountain of duck fat before me. Captured by Scarlett in the photo above, that scene is an apt representation of my twelfth and final week at Ballymaloe. Nearly everyone in the Pink Cottage had a similar meltdown that week, and whether it was channeled through duck fat or white yeast bread or something else entirely, we all knew that it was really about the fact that we’d soon be leaving.

You’ll be relieved to know that my duck turned out just as I’d hoped when I made it for my practical exam — neatly jointed legs, burnished and tender, perched on a bed of melty onions. My plum tart exceeded expectations, too, with its flaky shortcrust base and frangipane middle. All in all, the practical was an unexpectedly pleasant experience. I had a whole station to myself (a true luxury), and felt smooth and capable as I made a loaf of bread and a three-course meal from start to finish in under three hours. My teachers were so kind and congratulatory, and I felt lighter once it ended despite knowing that two lengthy written exams still awaited me. Before I resumed studying, I walked to the beach, where I pooled salt water in my hands and pressed my feet into the sand. We took the two written exams (each two hours long) on our very last day at Ballymaloe. Anything even briefly mentioned on the course was fair game, so the range of subjects were vast and the questions viciously specific and sometimes hilarious. Which fire extinguisher should you use on different types of kitchen fires? List twenty canapés. Is brioche a French Christmas bread? Which animal did this bit of raw meat come from? Nobody left feeling particularly confident, but I think that may have been the point? Regardless of how we did, our preparation for the written exams forced us to review everything we learned and therefore register far more than we would’ve otherwise.

That night, we got dolled up for a formal farewell dinner cooked by Rory O’Connell himself. There’s nothing quite like getting ready with a gaggle of girls, music blasting, compliments flowing. Before leaving for dinner, we clinked glasses of Champagne and cheersed to the Pink Cottage. Everyone looked glamorous and glowy and I felt honored to be in their company when we entered the candlelit dining room. Our meal was Ballymaloe food at its finest: romanesco soup with spiced tomato oil and coriander, slow roast shoulder of lamb with aioli and salsa verde with seasonal roast vegetables, potato gratin, green salad, and one of the more perfect desserts I’ve ever had: chocolate and caramel mousse with candied oranges and Jersey cream. Nourishing, filling, elegant — the kind of food I love to cook and eat.

And just like that, it was over! The next morning, we bought consolatory sausage rolls for breakfast, vacuumed the floors, loaded our stuff into cars, and squeezed each other as tight as we could before heading out. I would’ve been a wreck had I not been going home with Georgia and thinking I’d see most of the girls in London in a few days (a plan that sadly got the kibosh due to Covid). Even so, it stung to drive away from the precious little corner of the world that is Ballymaloe. It was a fittingly dramatic journey to Georgia’s house in Oxfordshire thanks to a missed ferry, and we didn’t get there until 4:30 am, drained and woozy. 

I’m so glad I decided to stay with Georgia and her boyfriend Reece for the week before coming home. I felt so comfortable there, lounging in front of the fire, watching Bake Off, flipping through cookbooks, snuggling, cooking, and recovering. It felt like a home away from home, and I’m already scheming to go back. When we weren’t being couch potatoes, we did some Christmas shopping in Oxford, spent a few hours at Georgia’s grandma’s house (I miss my grandmas!), had dinner with her parents (her dad makes a mean chicken curry), and, on my last night, went to an Arsenal game! The energy at the Emirates was electric. All I can say is Ødegaard forever. <3 It was such a fun way to end my time in Europe.

I went straight to Heathrow after the game to catch an early morning flight to Boston through Lisbon. It ended up being almost twenty-four hours of travel…not pretty. Needless to say, it was bliss to see my dad at the international terminal, get welcomed home by a bounding, ebullient Remy, and have a group hug with my mom and Malcolm before falling asleep. I love coming home after being away. 

I’ve said this so many times, but THANK YOU FOR READING THESE EMAILS! Writing them and reading your responses was one of the great joys of the past few months. Sharing my writing has brought such value to my life, so I’m considering continuing a newsletter of sorts in the new year. For now, I’m resting and organizing my life and thinking about how I want to proceed.

Love,

Phoebs