I love food! - Week 8

I love food.

Not always to eat it and sometimes not even the making of it (it's a myth that chef's are too picky to eat food made by others.  Actually, they are particular when it comes to dining out - they expect a certain level of professionalism, and know how much product costs.)

I love the alchemy of it - aggregating compounds, swirling them together in my lab of blue gas flames, polished steel and glass containers...the hum and whirl of equipment, the resulting bouquet of aromas titillating the noses and piquing the curiosity of passers-by.

I am enamored by the tactile sensation - an almost erotic manipulation of food in its rudimentary stages, stroking, shaping, sometimes forcefully converging it into something completely unconventional and delectable. I am one of those chefs who, while my hands are exceptionally clean, never wears gloves (too constricting - I can't feel my medium).

Throughout my childhood, I always paid close attention to details. I noticed when visiting my grandparents that the room everyone congregated in was the kitchen.  Everyone felt comfortable, at ease in there - like all predilection of formal decorum wasn't permitted.  And in truth - it wasn't.  When my grandmother cooked - everyone participated, and everyone stayed to talk, joke and just be with each other. The living room was where folks went when they were weary of each other, and needed a break before going to bed.  Not the kitchen!  The kitchen was warmth and excitement, fun and sharing, and genuine caring.

I observed the same behaviors, sights and sounds when I stayed with friends.  The foods and smells changed, sometimes even the language.  But always the kitchen was the heart and soul of the home.  I watched as mothers and fathers combined foods and spices I'd never seen or heard of into magnificent arrangements.  Family and friends gathered round, everyone together, laughing, smiling, truly loving each other.

I was eight, and quite convinced that this was how rich people lived.

As I grew older, I was convinced that I could be an amazing chef.  I made up my mind, hiked up my undergarments and went to culinary school.  I remember walking into the kitchen for the first time. I was given a tour by one of the department heads.  A senior class was in full swing, preparing to feed a small crowd in the adjacent cafe. I was fascinated and in love!  The smells, the sounds, the movements of the symphony of line cooks and chefs... "Time, please!"  Five minutes out, Chef! "Where's my asparagus John?!" Coming to you now, Chef!  The recognizable aroma of my favorite creme brulee and warm honey yeast rolls fresh from the oven. Everyone knew their role, and moved in tandem - a single body working to make this elaborate, decadent artwork.

I showed up to my first classes uniformed, shiny faced, well-stocked with gear and thoroughly excited.  By week six, I was so utterly disgusted and disenchanted I wasn't sure I would finish the semester, let alone another year and a half. I sat crying in the deans office, unsure how to proceed.  It wasn't the cooking - I could do that with my hands tied.  It was the limitations, the lack of (what I considered) to be important expectations.  How could you begin to test on consistent Brunoise cut, when you had not adequately taught your students to sharpen and care for their knives? How can you teach sanitation and food safety, when it's not enforced in the actual kitchen?  I wanted to soar, to try different techniques and experiment with alternatives. They wanted me to follow the recipe exactly and clean up after other students who were so caught up with their plating technique they didn't have time to actually finish cooking their chicken breast, let alone clean their work station. Teamwork was non-existent, the students (most were 18 years old), were entitled and cliquey, and more than a few of us decided not to return after completing only one year.

I left culinary school disillusioned and hating to cook.

It took almost a year to find my groove again.  Slowly, after a few months of only necessity cooking, I began to bake again.  Cookies for my daughter. A special birthday dessert for my husband. A friend asked me to make her a cake, and I actually enjoyed it. Then I started playing around with some recipes and created some of my own - and they were great!
I learned something very important:  you can't cage creativity.  Trust yourself - if it works for you, if it flows - let it be.

That was the part of those wonderful evenings with family and friends from my youth, that had escaped me.  It flowed. It was natural, inspiring, and easy.   But then, it wasn't really the food after all.