“Always give without remembering and always receive without forgetting.” – Japanese Proverb

Today, I was ready. I may have been taken down by the eggs, but I was not going to be beaten by the bird. I showed up ravenous. After practicing on a chicken over the weekend and doing well, watching the instruction videos meticulously, and taking pages of notes, I was ready to carve and cook my classroom chicken. 

Week Two – Day One was going to be intense and chaotic. After fabricating a chicken, we would saute one breast, grill another breast, pan fry a leg and thigh, and deep fry another leg and thigh. We also were supposed to practice more knife cuts somewhere in all of that. After cooking, with a flourish, would be a brief lecture on salt. My five pages of notes were in sheet protectors, with extra space to add extra information from Chef’s demos. My knives were honed and sanitized. I was beyond ready.

Chef began with a demo of a way to fabricate chicken that I had not seen before. “No sweat. Don’t psych yourself out. You can do this,” I told myself. A few new twists and turns, with a deliciously barbaric removal of the wishbone by hand. I was a little less confident, but still aware that I knew how to do this. Then, the bad news.

Somehow, not all the birds were thawed for our class. Only about half were ready to go. The other half were thawing as fast as they could. Chef was annoyed, but professional. My heart squeezed a bit for Sous Chef. Even if it wasn’t her fault directly, the chickens would be under her umbrella of responsibilities. So while the birds thawed, Chef proceeded with more demos. Rapid-fire, he sauteed, pan fried, deep fried, and grilled. It was quite impressive to see him bouncing from station to station. His techniques were almost identical to the source materials he had assigned. I still felt like I could accomplish these tasks. 

Then, more bad news. Chef asked the class who had fabricated a chicken before. My hand and three others went up. He asked us to step down briefly and work on knife cuts while a staff member went to the grocery store to buy us chickens. The thaws would not be ready in time. I cursed my honesty a little. I was so much slower than the other students and to be behind again worried me. Chef assured us we would have enough time. It was still stressful to see the other students whiz through their chickens while I was back on potato duty.

Quick aside on potatoes: I did great this week with knife cuts. 10/10 for the first time! I practiced a lot over the weekend and applied a few tricks Chef recommended for my height. Annoyingly, commercial kitchens are designed for “people” (read: MEN) who are about 5’5” to 6’3” (-ish). At 5’3”, I came just short (pun) of being able to apply proper cutting technique at commercial kitchen prep tables. Chef said I may never achieve perfection (what a relief!) but could get very close, with practice and a few adjustments. 

At home, I stopped eating the potatoes around early Sunday. I tried so hard, but I just couldn’t stomach any more. Growing up, wasting food was a sin, and I struggled with the idea that learning a skill was not the same as throwing away a perfectly good potato. I must have forced more than two bags of potatoes on me and my partner over the past few weeks, in order to practice my knife cuts. I made mashed potatoes, colcannon, shepherd’s pie, and more mash before just calling it. I threw away about four potatoes total the weekend before class, so my salvage numbers are still okay overall. I loathe waste, but I’m only human. Combine that with more egg-flipping practice and, good God, am I sick of potatoes and eggs.

Back to class. My knife cuts were going well when the chickens arrived. Oh. My. God. My classmates and I were stunned. The birds were huge. We now had less time than our classmates and double the meat. I got started and did okay with the little wings and drumettes, which seem to stay the same size no matter how busty the birds get. The thighs were tough to dislocate, and Chef had to come around and ask why I was struggling so much. He lifted the whole bird and snapped the leg joints for me. I managed to keep the oyster meat intact (a sweet little tidbit about the size of a quarter, located between the thigh and bone, that should always come with the thigh). The way I had to dig for the wishbone was borderline obscene. One of my classmates called me over to look at his bird, and asked about where to separate the thigh bone. He had cut his chicken differently than me, and we both struggled to find the correct edge of bone. I guessed and told him if I was wrong, I owed him a Coke. He asked for Pepsi instead. (I was, in fact, quite wrong and honored my bargain with a cold Pepsi delivered to him the next class).

When I finally cut the breasts away, they were the size of my head.  Chef said that the four of us with the dinosaur breasts could cut them in half for our purposes. Double shit. I rarely did that at home because I usually have smaller chickens. I gave it a try and came out with one still-pretty-substantial breast and one measly little a-bit-more-than-a-tenderloin. Speaking of which, I have a new respect for the humble little tender. She pulls away from the breast without need of a knife, almost as if to say: “I am ready for the fryer! Eat me and enjoy! There is no shame in loving the chicken tender!” So, with two breasts cut to a more reasonable size, and my two sad little almost-breasts, plus legs and thighs, I dove into cooking.

First was a saute, since my tablemate was already pan-frying. For safety reasons, Chef wanted only one pan-fry at a stove, as there is so much hot oil popping. I used one of my reasonable breasts and did okay. The stove is so powerful that I backed off a little on the heat, so the feedback that I had weak color didn’t come as a surprise. Then, I screwed up. I lost track of the purpose of the good breast (in my defense, I was downright swimming in breasts) and breaded it. NOT what I was supposed to do for grilling. What’s done is done, so I threw that one on to another saute (just to avoid more waste). While my original sauteed chicken was resting, I then had another going, plus I needed to start my pan-fry. While the oil heated up, I finished cooking my fuck-up saute and ran to Chef to grade my correct saute. My heat was a little too low, so my color was shy of golden. Seasoning on point. Success! I ran back to my station to pull my fuck-up saute to rest, and check the pan-fry oil. 

We use an infrared thermometer to check the heat of the oil for a pan-fry, which should be about 350 degrees F. There are other tricks to test it (a chopstick, bread crumbs, the corner of whatever you’re cooking), but these days, an infrared thermometer is so inexpensive and accurate, Chef says its reasonable to just depend on those. Fewer dishes or “stuff” around the stove. I got the pan-fry going and then Chef declared: “Twenty minutes left!”  BETRAYAL! I still had to grill and deep fry. 

I kept telling myself not to freak out, that I juggled dishes all the time at home. My pan-fried pieces were stubbornly not moving to 155 degrees, at which point I could pull them to rest. I ran to the grill and asked my tablemate for help. He saw me flour the thin little breast and reminded me there was no breading on the grill (why was I so obsessed with flour today?). I shook it off and threw it on the grill. Fuck. Forgot to oil it. My tablemate once again came to rescue and oiled the grill for me while I held my sad little chicken in the air. I ran to check my pan-fry, which was ready to go. I pulled those pieces to rest, then ran to the deep fryer. One student already had something in, but was gracious enough to move his basket over so I could add mine. Boom! Leg and thigh going in the deep fryer. 

I ran back to the pan-fried pieces resting and hovered my hand over them to feel how hot they were. Still pretty warm, so I didn’t even need to take their temperature. Back to the grill. Good grill marks on one side, so I flipped her. I realized that this piece was so slim, she was rapidly shrinking. I made a mental apology to the well-endowed chicken that died for my grade, and decided the grilled breast was on her own. I brought the now-rested pan-fried pieces to Chef, who praised the cook. I was one of the only ones with those massive birds that cooked them all the way through. I checked on my deep fry which was still looking light, ran to the grill, and pulled my sad girl off to rest. Then, I took a breath for the first time in about 17 minutes.

Chef and I laughed over my paltry grilled breast. “What happened here?” he said. “Well, sir, the butcher and the cook weren’t on the same page. It’s not the chicken’s fault. She was the victim in all of this.” At least I got a chuckle. She was, not surprisingly, wildly overdone. And highly peppered, which I barely even remember doing. One of my lowest scores to date in the class, but at least I wasn’t surprised by it.

I pulled my deep fried pieces with seconds left. Kindly, Chef looked at them and declared them done appropriately. He was either able to tell just by the color or texture, or he was so exasperated with us all that he didn’t want to cut into another piece of chicken. Perhaps it was a little of both. Regardless, I was grateful for the relief so I could move onto dishes.

Getting more comfortable in the kitchen means I’m able to move a little bit faster. It feels pathetically infinitesimal, but it’s something. I may be the slowest cook, the slowest chopper, the slowest cleaner, but I don’t stop. It’s all I can offer my peers. Once I’m done cooking, I run (metaphorically, since running is highly unsafe in kitchens) to grab dishes, spot check issues, and communicate loudly with my classmates. 

Being in culinary school has shown a spotlight on many bad habits and flaws I have, not just in the kitchen but as a person. I’m starting to see ways in which my actions don’t align with my values or intent. It’s humbling and painful, but I’m thankful for the opportunity to see myself in these new ways. Too often, we get complacent and insular. We surround ourselves with people just like ourselves and don’t see those rough edges that could use some refining. One thing I’ve noticed is how much I resist help. I want to do it myself, handle it myself, take the credit myself. I want to be fully self-reliant and never in need. 

Reality check: I could not have gotten through this class without the courtesy and assistance of my peers. Gentle reminders, extra care, and physical support are all around me. It’s humbling how much my spirit rebelled against it. While I finished my chicken, dishes around me magically disappeared. Students to whom I gave incorrect information laughed the errors off. I’m surrounded by grace, patience, and humor with a majority of people who are half my age. Learning how to accept help has been one of the most difficult parts of the classroom so far. I never expected it. However, it’s also shifted my perspective on being helpful. I see now how vulnerable it is to need assistance. The best help, at least in the kitchen, is swift and unflinching, with no regard for tally or “pay back.” The general consensus is that it will all come around again.