“Rather than waste your time being stressed over making the right decision, make the decision right.” – Dr. Ellen Langer

I walked into the lecture portion of class late on the first day of Week Two. Exactly how I did not want to start. The “good student” in me seethed at my time management skills and also how dare I trust a lock? Culinary students keep personal items and spare tools in lockers nearby our classrooms. Only the essential tools needed for the day are allowed in the kitchen lab.  Feeling 15 again in the worst possible way, I struggled with my combination, then the lock simply refused to close at all. Couple that with getting immediately lost in a relatively small building, and I felt pretty shitty about the day already.

The lecture portion of class meets at 8:00am for an hour and a half. I was able to catch my breath and cool my sweating body, but I was so mad at myself. A memory of a former supervisor floated across my mind. I had been three minutes late to a meeting and was stunned at her reprimand. “Three minutes is a lot,” she said. “I take our time together seriously. I am prepared for our conversation and you aren’t.” I remember thinking, “Good grief, lighten up.” As I sat in class that day, though, I saw that moment in a new light. She was right. One-on-one time with an expert in a field is precious. One-on-one time with any human is precious. I am taking time away from my life to build a new life here. To show up also means to show up ready.

The idea of mise en place was the topic of the lecture that day. We learned about having “everything in its place” to mean not only a tidy and efficient space with all the correct tools, but also the right mindset for the work at hand. To appear at the correct time, with the correct headspace. Not necessarily ignoring the other critical elements of life that weigh in the mind and heart, but asking them to briefly step down. “I will take care of your needs, but first, I must work.” It comforted me. I hadn’t shown up well that day, but I had another day to try again. And the knowledge of mise en place was a tool in and of itself. Planning and preparation. Giving the hours you must spend in a certain way the attention it demands. Maybe not demands, but deserves. As I headed into the lab portion of the class later that day, my spirits were much higher. Today was a day for which I could still show up well. 

Indeed, it was white stock day – simple, essential, delicious. Each student received 8 pounds of chicken bones. We prepared our mirepoix by roughly chopping onions, celery, and carrots. I loved learning about mirepoix: the base components for a variety of dishes. There are also different mirepoix for different cultures. In French cooking (on which most American culinary education is based), the ratio is two parts onion, one part celery, and one part carrot. The “holy trinity” of Cajun and Creole cooking is a mirepoix of onion, celery, and  green pepper. The Spanish and Latin sofrito is a mirepoix of onion, tomato, and garlic. Asian cuisine uses a mirepoix of scallions, garlic, and ginger. While the actual name mirepoix is specific only to French cuisine, it’s fascinating that we all approach cooking with such connected ideas: start with a base that your family knows, loves, and grows well around you, then work your way up to more complex dishes. It’s beautiful.

After simmering the chicken carcasses, skimming the fat, and adding the mirepoix took about an hour.  Roughly 20 stockpots surrounded us, brimming with incredible aromas. It was absolute heaven. The steam from both sides of the room enveloped us. It was an amazing moment. We have all experienced the delicious joy of inhaling something on the stove. To be immersed in this way, letting pots full of all our efforts waft over each pore and infusing our very breath. I will never forget it.

We also tackled more knife cuts that day. I was ready. Instead of pretending to be 22 again, I brought my reading glasses this time. I also asked Chef for a red cutting board instead of the usual white ones. Now, I could actually fucking see. My cuts were still off, but better. Chef complimented my technique and encouraged me to increase my production. Last week, I had tried to keep up with my tablemates and went too quickly. He had encouraged me to slow down and really look at my cuts. Now that I had done so, he wanted more. “I can assess you better with a mix. Show me everything, not just your best.” I felt a twinge in my little overachieving heart, but I knew he was right. To correct mistakes, I had to show him my mistakes. I hated it. His feedback was constructive and kind (a treasured skill in a teacher). Instead of scolding me for cherry-picking my best and finest cuts, he asked to see more of my ability. Phrased in this way, I felt buoyed and ready to show him more of my flaws. He also complimented me on the fact that I was self-correcting, which was a good skill to have in the kitchen. It was a nice way to attribute my slightly neurotic selection of cuts to present. Maybe, just actually fucking maybe, I could do these things. Maybe I could do this class. Maybe I could finish and finish well. Shit, our next class was eggs and I loved eggs!