Shocking as it may be, I was excited to turn back to eggs in this class, since no flip was required for today’s assignments. The eggs assigned were delicate, but not the diva-level theatrics that flipping required.  This class would prove to be difficult, but I felt prepared. I had practiced over the weekend and knew the theory inside and out. I felt confident, but also wary. After all, I had felt confident in the kitchen before…

Today’s class was about a variety of moist heat methods, meaning submersion in liquid, usually water or broth. The previous class categorized frying, sauteing, and grilling as “dry heat.”  We were also tackling omelets. The lineup included two poached eggs, two simmered eggs (colloquially, “hard boiled,” but Chef encouraged us to release that name since we didn’t technically boil the eggs), one poached chicken breast, an American omelet, a French omelet, and steamed carrots.

A general rule in the kitchen is to start your time with items that take the longest. This approach allows some room to course-correct if things go awry. I planned my omelets for last, as I was most confident in those, and started in on simmered eggs. Simmered eggs are simple as long as you set a timer and don’t delineate. Start with room temperature water, add eggs (we used two, and adding more will change the cooking time slightly), and bring to a boil. Once a boil begins, turn off the heat and set a timer for 18 minutes. Chef assured us they would be perfectly and fully cooked. At over a mile high elevation, which can mess with anything in boiling or simmering liquid, I’ve learned to trust my own community rather than cooks from other places in the country. Plus, obviously, he’s Chef!

Knowing we had to take turns using the combi-oven (a giant convection oven), I wanted to be one of the first. I prepared my batonnet carrots as fast as I could, though not fast enough to make it to the first steaming round. I focused so much on sizing that I forgot about length. Chef nailed me on that: “These should all be the same length!” He sounded annoyed. Damn. I just kept coming up short on these cuts. 

One other difficult element of the kitchen classroom is that hot foods need to be plated on hot plates and cold food on cold plates. My tablemate had placed plates in the oven to warm, but when I opened it up to plate my carrots, my heart sunk. He had actually placed platters in the oven – larger ceramic pieces that would take forever to heat up. I ran to get more plates and rearranged as best I could. My carrots were rapidly cooling. I had added melted butter, salt, and parsley when they were fresh from the combi-oven, but things were rapidly congealing. I tried putting them in the oven to warm, but it simply wasn’t hot enough yet. I tried the shelf above the stovetop, but the same issue plagued me. I gave up, went for the oven, and tried to move on. 

I turned to poached eggs, embracing the idea of struggle and ready to remake if I needed to. They are incredibly temperamental, as anyone who has attempted them knows. I dipped my eggs slowly into lightly simmering water, about a tablespoon of vinegar, and a swirling vortex of water. I gently stirred around them to keep the egg white tails from sticking to the bottom of the pan. Miraculously, they held their shape. I stared at them, refusing to move, in the hopes of actually succeeding on the first try. I dipped a spoon into the water to lift and inspect one. You can tell how set (or un-set) they are with a gentle wiggle. Still under. Back into the vortex and more laser-eyed staring from me. After a few more seconds, I removed them and placed them on a pan lined with paper towels. You’d think I was operating on a heart, the way I was sweating so much. I was terrified of them breaking on the paper towels. By some miracle, they held, and I gently rolled them onto the plate. A sweep of a paper towel to remove excess water and I ran to present them to Chef. He swept a spoon through the yolks and we watched them spill out beautifully golden all over the plate. He tasted and proclaimed my seasoning excellent and my cook flawless. I almost died and went to heaven. Sure, I had a whole day of work ahead of me but perfect poached eggs is a win for anyone.  

I checked my steamed carrots and they (and their plates) were still barely lukewarm. I had to make a choice. I couldn’t wait for them to dry out, so I just plated and presented them. Chef was less than impressed. “Cold,” he said, and shoved them back toward me. Looking back, I shouldn’t have rushed and just waited for them to warm up. I’m still dealing with the rigorous balance of time management, temperature management, and presentation management.

My simmered eggs were still happily cooking, so I moved onto poached chicken. We used a lightly oiled parchment paper circle to cover our chicken breasts. I brought some chicken stock (the stick we had made last week, actually) to a gentle simmer and checked the temperature before laying my breast down. This moment was one of the really frustrating parts of being in culinary school. I knew immediately something was wrong but didn’t know what to do. My instincts were correct, but my skillset was lacking. I felt like a stranger in country where I didn’t speak the language, desperately seeking clues within a context I didn’t understand.

Almost immediately, my stock started bubbling too hard and the edges of chicken turned opaque. It was cooking way too fast. I tried turning the burner down as far as I could, but the size of them, plus the hood ventilators constantly extinguished an ultra-low flame. I was flailing between too high of a temperature and no flame at all. I raised my parchment paper way too often, letting the steam out and defeating the purpose of a gentle, light poach. Mentally, I gave up, and simply tried to cook the breast all the way through. I pulled her to rest, ashamed at her awful, leathery appearance, and started my French omelet.

It’s easy to make fun of a French omelet – delicate, light, and somewhat fussy – until you’ve actually tasted one. Even people who prefer their eggs harder often swoon at the idea of a perfect French omelet. The eggs need to be whisked so that no egg whites remain. Chopsticks, a fork, and a wire whisk are all great at this task, and each delivers a different level of aeration. I liked using a fork, and that was how I practiced at home, so I went with what I knew. The pan should be lowish to medium heat, as you want no browning at all on a French omelet. Chives or other herbs can be added before cooking or as a garnish, or both. In class, we were using chopped chives and gruyere cheese. I swirled the eggs in my pan and went hard at the solidifying curds. For French omelets, you want as tiny a curd as possible, so swirling the pan and banging at the eggs with a spatula is key. And super fun. 

As the eggs started to solidify, I prayed to Jacques Pépin and Ayo Edebiri, and tipped my pan, starting to gently roll. I had a few cracks but managed a reasonable amalgamation of the elegant diamond shape. I hurried my omelet to Chef, not wanting it to cool even a bit. He declared it delicious. I floated back to the stove and started my American omelet.

 American omelets are folded over and often stuffed with filling. Today’s class had us using cubed ham and cheddar cheese. My tablemates had generously shared their grated cheese with me. I was behind, as usual. I was one of the only ones left at the stoves as I browned my ham. I was exhausted by this point, and knew I wasn’t giving America the attention I gave France. I overcooked it slightly, letting it brown. I was still struggling with temperature management with these massive burners. While browning is usually acceptable for most kitchens presenting American omelets, Chef had asked us to avoid it today. When I presented him my American omelet, he complimented the cook and the fillings, but did ding me on the browning. I was emotionally and physically spent, so I was more than happy to end my cooking day with that feedback.

I had some setbacks today, but they were mostly on the lesser items (cold carrots and browned omelets). To win on poached eggs and a French omelet kept me floating high. I was absolutely spent and ready to go home. My back and legs were throbbing. I started pulling dirty dishes around me, checking on other students and grabbing what I could to clean or put away. My table was on dish pit duty this week, but there was only so much space at the sinks, so I started chipping away at other tasks. At one point, my tablemate saw me wiping down the hand-stations, “Isn’t that another table’s job?” she said. Another girl smirked and went, “Yeah, but Mary said ‘I wanna go hoooooome!’” and we laughed. She was right though. I was dreaming of a cool shower and my cozy couch. Why was I doing another table’s work? I started to get heated.

I looked over the task list for the week, which assigned tables to duties. I noticed that a particular table was woefully behind and I started to get annoyed. We were all busting ass to clean up and go home and where was that table? I felt my “annoying A+ Student” shadow self creeping in. I walked up to Chef, ready to complain about the table, but someone called my name. My tablemates in the dish pit needed a hand. Once I finished, I huffed my way over to Sous Chef, again more than ready to throw my fellow table under the bus. We were all sweating and slamming through the kitchen lab space, desperate to be done and go home. I saw Sous Chef looking over the task list and I walked over to her, totally high on being in the right. “Chef, isn’t that table supposed to be emptying the fridges right now?” Sous Chef looked again and agreed. Then, she said, “Oh wait, it’s just Shannon* today.”  My heart sunk as I remembered.

Shannon was shy.  A young, quiet student, she had already been scolded for not speaking up in class. I had noticed a few other errors over the weeks where Sous Chef had to pull her aside and address her work. She showed up every day, silent and ready for class, but rarely engaged in the chatter between tasks. When Chef mentioned her name, I remembered that her tablemates had been absent from the lab that day. The back-breaking labor I was so puffed about was on one person’s plate instead of the usual 3-5, as with the other tables (for example: my table had 3 people and we were sharing duties with another table of 2). I was immediately ashamed. Instead of being ready to point the finger at this girl, I should have been offering to help her. I was also abashed at how quick I was to rat her out for not doing her work, when she was likely overwhelmed and unsure (the modality I myself spent a large part of time in during these classes). She was also probably half my age. I was mortified and angry at myself. 

I’ve mentioned before how humbling some of these kitchen lessons have been. I am seeing myself in new lights, shining onto corners of my heart and mind that are easily hidden in a generic workplace setting. I wanted to think I was a kind person, but a few hours of hard work and a little bit of hunger was all it took to make me mean. I didn’t like that. I worked with Shannon and other classmates to accomplish the tasks. At the end of the day, Sous Chef thanked me for stepping up and helping, but I didn’t deserve the praise. I may have looked proactive on the outside, but I couldn’t help being disappointed in myself for my internal motivations.  As we left the class, I told Shannon she was doing a great job and hoped my words didn’t sound hollow. I meant them in the moment, but wouldn’t blame her if she thought I was full of shit. I kind of had been? More to mull on, more to think about, and more to learn. I walked to the locker room with a lot on my mind.

* Names are changed for privacy.