Culinary School: End of the Beginning

There are two parts to every story — an end and a beginning. In the beginning of this story, I sit on a long bench outside my classroom on the first level of Cincinnati State’s ATLC building. I am holding a green bandanna and though I know nothing about how to tie it around my neck, I am pretty sure the woman next to me does.

She looks seasoned, ruffled and a bit tired but despite these characteristics, she is friendly. “Like this,” she motions and her hands move briskly in the air. “You’re going to like class,” she promises. She must sense my hesitation. “Famous last words,” I laugh.

In the end of this story — this tale of my first term in culinary school — I am finishing a stuffed, two-egg omelet for our final practical. We are being graded on how well we season, on how clean we keep our stations and on how many trips we have to make because of a forgotten piece of equipment. We are being timed, we are being observed and the energy in the room is heightened.

My hands, which are now shaking either with adrenaline or nerves, fumble around with a spatula to fold the edges of the eggs into a suitable shape. I am slightly concerned with my fingers and their inability to steady; I have never felt so unable to operate my own body. But focusing on this aberration of movement is a luxury I do not have. Despite the ticking clock, the audible 5-minute warning from my instructor, and the concerning way my eggs seem too thin on one side, I can only think of one thing. Get the eggs on a plate.

Since flipping the pan onto the plate is too harsh of an action for the delicate omelet I have constructed, I take the piping hot thing out with my hands. Strangely, I feel no pain as I transfer the omelet as deliberately and carefully as a surgeon in an operating room. When the eggs land neatly on the plate, I take in a gulp of air. Relief starts to trickle in but it’s too soon.

This crazy first term, the hauling back and forth from work to school, the late night reasoning that I am moving in the right direction — it won’t be over until my instructor takes a bite.

I slide the plate in front of her and stand back to wait for feedback. The moment lingers. “Yum,” she says. “That’s really good.” And then she slides my written evaluation on the table.

“Thanks,” I say. “Thanks, a lot.” And then once again, my body makes a movement I cannot control. I smile.

Tagged as: cincinnati state, Culinary School, midwest culinary institute