The Big Reveal

So I finally enrolled in culinary school. As part of my application, I had to write an essay to explain why I wanted to go, so I started typing. After about 10 minutes this is what I came up with. It turns out it was only supposed to be 200 words and the essay below is about 600 words so I had to edit it down, but I’ve left it in tact for this post.

Forgive the rather flowery language and tone. I was in a sentimental mood.

“My story is not a unique one I am sure. I came to love food the way many have come to love it: in my home, growing up. My mother was an unabashedly talented cook who had a particular knack, which I never quite comprehended, for tasting a dish or watching someone make a dish and then marching into our tiny NYC kitchen to duplicate, if not improve upon, it. I spent my childhood tugging at her metaphorical apron (she typically chose a brightly colored cotton muumuu instead), yearning to participate in this alchemy. I wanted desperately to help, but for awhile, she would swat at me as if I were a buzzing nuisance. I would take to sneaking over to the range while her back was turned and surreptitiously stirring whatever she was cooking on the stove top. She would turn and shoot me a look that said, “what are you doing?” I would drop the spatula immediately and scurry back onto my designated stool at the counter.

This dance between my mother and me did not last very long. Eventually she gave in to the undeniable fact that I was growing up to be just like her. I loved food: eating it, making it, watching it be made. She knew she could not keep me at bay for much longer. The swatting gave way to lessons right around the age of 8. It began with assigning me simple tasks supplemented by a few explanations when necessary. First it was snapping the end off string beans. That led to mashing up curry pastes in our granite mortar and pestle. Finally, it was time for dicing and chopping around the age of 12. “You’re gonna cut your fingers off!” She would bark. “Curl your fingers under, like this,” she would tell me, demonstrating.

I now see so much more of my mother’s cooking style in me. The contradiction of my woeful moans when I am left to cook large meals entirely by myself and my quick flare of impatience when anyone tries to help or, God forbid, does something the wrong way. “Just…get out. Get out, get out, get out. I’ll do it. It’s fine.” That was a classic of my mother’s.

I also now realize that I’ve grown beyond what my mother could teach me before she passed away. I’m hungry, pardon the pun, for more knowledge, more growth, and more experience in the kitchen. In a way, I feel the need and desire to be an extension of everything my mother was as a cook. I like to think of going to culinary school as taking her with me to the next level.

I live and breath food and feel that my passion would be wasted if I do not attend culinary school and begin my head first dive into the professional food world. The dynamic, creative atmosphere of a kitchen (home or commercial) appeals to every part of me that longs to feed people and make them happy, to create and perhaps even dazzle. The French Culinary Institute is undoubtedly the vehicle that will take me to where I dream of being. The resources, reputation, and rigorous curriculum of the school is second to none in New York City and I hope to soon join the ranks of their talented alumnae. The French Culinary Institute will take me to the doorstep and then it will be up to me to cross the threshold.

Plus, I just really want to cook.”