Week One – Day Two: Potato Whittling

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“We’re not dying at 50. What are we doing for the next 40 years? Going to boohoo about not being 25?”- Stacy London

My community has been supportive and enthusiastic about my decision to take a break from work for a few months and take cooking classes. I received cheers from everyone I told, which tells me I’ve done well in choosing my chosen family. The conversation falters a bit when the next question inevitably arises: “And then what are you going to do?”  It’s a well-meaning ask, and logical given the circumstances. Only my closest friends knew how intense my cooking hobby had become over the past few years. Outer circles saw the occasional food or restaurant post, but that’s common fodder for most of us on social media. It’s not that I objected to the question. It’s the awkwardness that followed when I said, “I don’t….really know. I don’t know?” I found myself getting flustered and being quick to assure them that I would probably just go back to my regular work at the end of the summer. A handful of them couldn’t stop a flash of relief from dancing across their eyes. Sometimes a slightly crinkled brow would smooth. There isn’t anything wrong with this response. It makes me a little sad. I see it not as a flaw on my friends’ part, but rather a normal reaction from all of us being indoctrinated into a society obsessed with labor. It made sense to take time off for a vacation or to go to school with a degree in mind or recuperate from an illness – all endeavors with a tangible goal and an end date. Some were just puzzled by a three-month delving into…what, exactly? But all were ultimately supportive.

Most of my community lit up right away when I didn’t have an answer to that question. “How exciting!” “Perfect!” “No need to figure it out now!” Their words lifted my spirits before I started classes. During the hardest moments, they were a balm to bruised ego and discouraged heart. Culinary school – even one as accessible as mine – is not for the weak. 

Nell Painter’s book, “Old in Art School,” has been a beacon to me during this adventure. She speaks of her motivation to step away from a prestigious career as a historian to enroll in art school:

“Why I would want to go to art school was another . Answer: The pursuit of pleasure. Concentrating on what I could see gave me intense pleasure, and seeing what I could make with my own hand and according to my own eye was even more satisfying.”

The first day of class was filled with torrents of information via lecture. My back ached from sitting on the terrible metal stools but standing at attention was also terrible. I thought there was no way I could finish this summer. It’s a miracle what motivated action does to the body. I did walk away from the second week with throbbing feet and a sore back, but the pain was nothing like week one. Cooking was actually easier on my body.

And my mind. To set upon a task, and one so close to my heart, fueled something in me.

Chef works at the front of the classroom, facing us. A camera directly above records him and monitors scattered throughout the classroom ensure we all have a good view.

The second day, we began knife cuts. Classical knife cuts require physical stamina to consistently hold your knife correctly, and a sharp eye to angles and lengths. While we are allowed to use a guide (the blessed Mercer ruler), Chef encouraged us to try and cut using our own sight, then measure (instead of the other way around). Squaring off a potato seems simple enough. Ensuring the knife is aligned with a steady cutting board, simply apply pressure and rock the blade forward and through. Boom! A beautiful straight line. Rotate the potato and slice (do not chop) again, rotate and again, finish the sides, and then lose the ends. What remains should be a perfect square of starch. Except…it never quite works like that. My perfect squares somehow always had one wonky angle. Each time I tried to shave a bit off and remedy it, another angle seemed to also slide away from 90 degrees. Okay, take off a bigger piece. But now the ends are off, too. Trim and trim. Suddenly my perfect starter square has shrunk to half its size. Shit, well I might as well dive in and at least get a few cubes out of this. The issue is that without a solid starting square, cuts and cubes will taper and angle in even more severe ways. The fluorescent lights, the white of the cutting board, and the pale starch shrinking into tinier and tinier cubes was brutal. My eyes watered and I left class with a pounding headache. 

My station set up. I share a table with two other students.

That night, I ate Goldfish crackers and whiskey for dinner. Before this summer, I had always used frozen dinners sparingly but I realized that I needed help on class days. My wonderful partner agreed to cook for me those nights, or to simply take us out and ensure food went in my mouth. Cooking was usually my respite after a difficult day. I was not used to it taking all of my energy – both physical and emotional. This week was hard and terrifying. But, I knew that starting is always the hardest part. I would at least try to cook something before I quit.

Week One – Day One: Sensory Hell

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“Fear is a machine I’m learning to operate.” – Jacob Ward

The year I turned 40, I quit my job and enrolled in culinary school. The words in that order sound more dramatic than the reality of the situation. The job I left was in a field that loved me, though it wasn’t always mutual. I achieved moderate success, built several fulfilling professional friendships, and could pick up the work any time I want in the future. I’m lucky in that way. 

I’m also lucky that I live near a community college with a prestigious culinary program. I’m paying a fraction of a fraction for an excellent education at a school without a French name. My instructors have incredible experience and knowledge, and a community college is by nature a warmer, more welcoming environment than other educational institutions. I’m also lucky that frugal living and a supportive partner mean that I can afford to simply not work for a few months. I see all of these privileges, these safety nets layered around me, and still…terror. 

I almost didn’t walk into class the first day. I felt old and hot (the flushed kind, not the sexy kind). What was I doing there? I don’t even want to work in a restaurant. Am I stupid? Am I having a mid-life crisis? I’m too old to be pummeling myself in an academic setting again. I did the BA. I did the MA. I crashed and burned at the PhD. Haven’t I learned anything? I’m not fit for academia. 

But culinary school is and isn’t “academia.” Sure, many things are familiar. There is an overly complicated portal for my classes that never seems to update properly. Syllabi have not changed much in structure, but certainly in length (22 pages?!) The same types of personalities show up in the classroom space. The fluorescent lights sear into my eyeballs and somehow through my eyelids. Every single chair seems designed by someone who has never sat in a chair. Mid-terms and finals, a scattering of quizzes, textbooks of the latest edition that are somehow still riddled with typos. The thrill of learning something new. A tidbit or a technique. A secret trick to writing or research. And yes, the “A-ha!” moments that are as potently addicting as drugs. Oh, I remember this place. And yet, where I’ve landed is also a totally different planet than my former classrooms of debate over marginalia.

Chef and Sous Chef are markedly more organized and professional than most teachers in my undergraduate past. My liberal arts memories consist of professors ranging from affably rumpled to bullies still present in my nightmares. Written work was acrobatic, and I spent a lot of my professional writing life trying to undo the bad habits I developed there. My culinary courses are regimented in logical progression, building on each tradition, technique, and skillset. The required uniforms are fit for purpose. Class is predictable, but challenging. The challenges feel surmountable, given the order of the class. In many ways, I feel like I’m back in my graduate program (Dance History and Criticism) where intense scholarly work balanced equally with intense physical work. I’m using my mind and my body again. 

The Kitchen Lab.

Culinary arts also attracts a different type of student. My age alone sets me apart from most of the others. Unlike general education classes which feel more like bonding over a shared prison sentence, our love of cooking unites us. There are fewer disruptions from students who are distracted or bored. Most people don’t talk over Chef. There is some cell phone use, but it is minimal. It’s both strange and refreshing to be in an educational space in which the other students are incredibly focused. Even in graduate school (which I enjoyed markedly more than undergraduate), the permeations of competition and prestige of teacher attention changes the dynamics of the classroom. While students do vye for the attention of Chef, the courtesy of a regimented brigade system, as well as intense safety precautions, prevent most disruptive behavior. More than that, the students are all desperate to learn. It’s a fascinating environment. Stripping the superficial layers away (papers, conferences, scholarships, awards), and leaving only the craft, my peers and I are ravenous for instruction. We want to know how and why, where a technique originated, why one and not the other. 

But let’s get to the real stuff.

My uniform is a sensory nightmare. It is tight and loose in all the wrong places: taut across the chest as an unwelcome reminder that “unisex” really means “male,” exorbitantly floppy pants that need a seven inch hem because that was the size big enough to cover my ass, a linen-type hat that holds my hair in place but scratches at my forehead so much that I have to rip it off during breaks to get some relief. The non-slip, ergonomic shoes are now my new favorites, but the rubber soles take getting used to. Hair needs to be tied and tucked, which is pleasant enough. One difficult rule is no watches and no jewelry of any kind (except a wedding band). So, my good luck charms and fidget aids are gone.

We are only allowed our apron, a water bottle, and our knife kit in the kitchen lab. Our Production Plans can be digital or paper. I tried an iPad for the first couple of weeks, but will switch to paper in Week Three.

I guess this moment is a good time to mention my autism. Clothes can be prisons for me. The second I saw the uniform requirements, my heart sunk. The classes run from 8:00am to about 3:30pm. I was immediately worried that I wouldn’t get through the day. But, I wanted to try. I wanted this. And I didn’t want the uniform to be what kept me out. It may be what destroys me. But I didn’t want it to be the thing that kept me from starting. 

The required knife kit is full of dreamy tools of which I became immediately enamored:

From left to right: honing steel, kitchen shears, vegetable peeler, serrated knife, paring knife, Chef’s knife, boning knife, spatula, carver

Additional tools seemed excessive on the syllabus, but proved to be invaluable. I’ll never work without a bench scraper again!

Clockwise from top left: Mercer ruler, 3×5 notebook (Rite in the Rain brand has been precious for my clumsy hands), bench scraper, measuring spoons, microplane, bimetallic stemmed thermometer, digital thermometer, needle-nose pliers

We are also required to have towels, an egg pan, spatulas, and mixing spoons. I spent about $600 overall for everything, but I also bought the optional extras. It’s really an investment into my own kitchen. Plus, buying kitchen supplies gives me the same high as buying school supplies did years ago. It felt like a nice tradition to continue.