- Date: Saturday, January 20, 2007 -- 10pm
- Location: Somerville, MA
- Kitchen: My Apartment
- Dining Companion: Matty
- Recipe Rating: A-
Like many of my better ideas, the thought of going to culinary school was born out of stillness. It was my second year in graduate school. It had been a long semester, during which my fiance and I had split, and I had taken my quals. In the wake of my qualifying exam, an eerie silence fell upon my life. I had focused so much attention preparing for that one day, that once it passed I was no longer sure what to do. There was, as always, loads of mathematics to be done. But math could only fill some of the silences. I have always been a little scared of stillness and I knew that if I sat still too long, I would have to deal with the pain of what had happened between me and my fiance. So I cooked. Every time I opened the oven door, releasing waves of chocolatey smells, I felt renewed. I cooked like an addict. Cakes, and cookies, stir fries and currys, tostadas, citrus salads, lemon orzo, lentil soup, potato leek soup, tortilla soup... soup, after soup, after soup. I cooked comfort foods. I cooked foods whose smells would overtake me. With the freezer packed with leftovers, I just kept cooking. It was as if I was charmed: nothing I made in those days turned out any less than perfect. Nothing was dry, or tough, over or undercooked, poorly seasoned. Everything was just right. Standing in the kitchen over a perfect dinner one chilly December evening, I realized that everything was always perfect because I only cooked things that I could prepare perfectly. Desperate for a push out of my comfort zone, into a world of foods unknown, I started looking in to culinary school.