Standing in that concrete basement kitchen, I watched the guys shuttling hot pots and racks of food back and forth as they worked. Some of the faces were familiar from my dinners at the dining hall, some from the website. Even the wine guy was working, doling out catered dinners to those of us who opted to put the preparation of the Grand American Holiday Feast in their hands. A pile of red bell peppers was spilling out of a bowl on the work table, one of the chefs placed one back in the bowl as he nodded to another in agreement, “Yeah, these look good.”. The smells were at a minumum, most of the cooking had been done the day prior, but I was told, “You should have been here yesterday, it smelled awesome in here. She said she was really happy with the way the pies turned out.”. The vibe was palpable and delicious.
THIS is what I think cooking is all about.
Here I am, starting school on Monday. I’ve had to choose my words carefully as I explain my decision to start culinary training to different people who do not spend much time with me. The ones who exclaimed with sentiments such as, “Its about time!” and “Finally!!” were the ones closest to me, my friends and one or two relatives. It was odd, trying to explain that emotion and creativity was a motivating force when all I have been doing for years has been science based. It is like putting myself through a Katie Couric interview, only I have real, concrete, factual answers.
Things I worry about with school aren’t the things people on the outside think of. I don’t worry over shit like attitudes or histrionics as seen on TV. Chief Surgeons, Residents and Fellows never intimidated me, nor did a dying patient’s urgent need for attention, so running into a prick like a SellOut TV chef or Wannabe is no problem. Drama? Not into it, never have been. I don’t have any illusions of grandeur for myself, I’m not out to show anyone up. I’m only in this for the fun.
What I worry about is the swirling barrage of skills, tempering the drive to create, trying to not go hog wild over available resources, the pressure to succeed in culinary math, mastering using a steel, having to call my friend Patti to suture me up her the dining room after school… the usual.
I’ve discovered what makes ME right for school is that ability to take whatever is in front of me and turn it into a dish. It isn’t always a success, but its adventure without a road map. There is no “type”, per se, of person that should go to culinary school as far as I know, for everyone who learns there takes away greater knowledge, but I think those that are kept up at night with visions of sugar plums upon french toasted brioche with creme anglaise and candied ginger garnished with shavings of single origin Maracaibo chocolate dancing through their heads probably really do belong there. As I pondered my place in the universe as compared to others more in need of guidance and structure in the kitchen, I finally allowed myself the permission to be different and happy about it.
On Monday, I pick up my pile of books and my uniforms. I’ll undoubtedly pose for cheesy home pictures in my togs as countless other students have done before. It’ll be my first and last day as someone who always said, “What if…?”
