A long time ago, Middlebury College had some housing troubles. Even though they own the whole darn town of Middlebury, Vermont, apparently they did not have enough dorm space to house all of their students at once. When faced with such a quandary, most rational humans would say “well then, just don’t take so many students!”. This is why most rational humans are not allowed to work in college administration offices. If you are a school administrator or, even better, a politician, you’ve probably already figured out how Middlebury College decided to deal with their housing woes. Send about a fifth of the Junior class abroad for the second half of the year, and keep one fifth of the incoming Freshman class out of the way until the Juniors leave and the Freshman can take over their dorms. And thus was born the February Admissions Program at Middlebury College.

Let’s make one thing absolutely clear right now: I didn’t apply for February Admissions. I applied for regular September admissions, because I didn’t know what else I would do with myself for the first semester if I were to delay the commencement of my years as a college student. With this in mind, you can imagine my surprise when I received a letter from Middlebury inviting me to begin my four-year tenure as a student of the College not in September, as I had been hoping, but in February, as I had not even considered. Despite my confusion and mixed feelings as to what I expected a semester off to do to my ability to absorb and retain information, not to mention my motivation to actually participate in organized education, I accepted Middlebury’s gracious offer. After all, half a year off couldn’t hurt me too badly, and the other schools that had accepted me weren’t nearly as good. Besides, replacing an outgoing Junior would mean getting a cushy single for my very first semester as a college student.

My forced semester off seemed alive with promise: I could go back to France, I could volunteer for a political campaign, I could take a Wilderness Emergency Medical Technician course, I could learn to belly dance. “But wait!” said a nagging voice in the back of my head: “your parents are both teachers and you work at a summer camp, and you’re about to start at the most expensive four-year college in the history of mammals. Do you REALLY have the money to afford any of these important life experiences?” “No” responded my mother, who had apparently been eavesdropping on that nagging little voice “but we’ll find a way to make it happen anyways”. A nice sentiment, really. I appreciate my parents’ commitment to the idea that I should be able to take advantage of every opportunity, regardless of the fact that we’re not rich…but I couldn’t help but feel that my younger siblings were about to be sentenced to a life of eating canned beans and dropping out of high school early to get minimum-wage jobs, just so I could not go to school in Europe while I could just as easily not go to school here in these grand United States. And so I bade goodbye to the chance to go to France and eat cheese or go out into the woods to learn how to save people, pulled out the classified advertisement section of the Concord Monitor, and began the grand job hunt.

A restaurant job, I reasoned, would be both a good opportunity for learning and growth, and a good way to make money doing something that I enjoy (or at least tolerate). I could work in a kitchen, learn some new cooking techniques, see how I survive away from both academia and youth ministry, and decide once and for all whether I wanted to pursue a career in the culinary arts (turns out I don’t).

I landed a job at a certain restaurant which, in order to protect the interests of the restaurant (and avoid a slander suit), I will not name here. I will only tell you that the name of the restaurant starts with “The Sha” and ends with “ker Table”. I’m also not going to tell you that the restaurant is found on Shaker Road in Canterbury, New Hampshire. So don’t even ask, because I’m not telling you.

I am working there sixty hours or more each week, so my time to write is highly limited. I do, however, plan to use the minimal time and energy I spend writing to bring you: the most daring exposé about the darker side of the fine dining business EVER TO BE FOUND ON FREDRICKVILLE.


Required Reading:
Schlock Mercenary
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