I’m struck by the blunt honesty with which young people directly out of high school speak. This quality (usually) becomes more subtle with age, and it strikes me as refreshing.
I’ve never found myself pondering my age, so frequently.
As a result, I find myself having maternal conversations with my high-school self during class. Most of them are reassuring.
I’m terrified of the school’s death trap parking lot. My car’s almost been T-boned, sideswiped, or backed-into at least four times, now. I think there was a fight yesterday. And by fight, I mean a furious student on a motorbike shouting expletives.
Today’s pre-test revealed that I know nothing about increments of measurement and how they relate to one another. The same applies to knowing the proper names of kitchen utensils and vesicles.
I broke into a cold sweat as I tried to demonstrate that I could dismantle and reassemble a large slicer in front of my classmates.
Tomorrow, I pick up my first knife set. They’re no Wusthofs and I don’t care. Any knives will be vastly superior to the chipped Rachel Ray Santoku knife I’ve been using since college.
We’ve been reminded many times that as culinary students, we must not forget that we’re always on display. The kitchen “lab” is surrounded by windows, meaning the school can observe us as we prepare foods before and during meal service. This can basically been interpreted as, “Please don’t throw noodles.”
Waking up in the mornings to learn about food feels surreal. Even during the worst days in culinary school this semester, I know I’ll be happier slinging salads or disinfecting industrial deli slicers than doing what I have, full-time, for the past nine months.
What we truly love will never go away. Our interests and passions won’t diminish with time or fade gently into the night. My interest in all things food hasn’t and won’t.
Unfortunately, I have the sinking feeling that this enduring passion for food will not make me any better at kitchen math without a calculator.
Fractions or ratios, anyone?
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