I realized this the other night as I was out with some friends. I’ve been avoiding that entire aspect of a social scene for quite some time now, and somehow, the question surfaced
“So, what do you do?”
Me-“Well, I cook. I mean, I’m a cook.”
Luckily, the initiator was libated enough not to notice my stutter, or my complete shock that those words came out of my mouth. With a smile.
Burnt hands, Burnt arms, no nails, cuts all over, totally unappealing, unflattering uniform, following directions and not asking questions that have anything to do with your own opinion. I guess this means I’m a cook.
And I love it.
I’m so glad that I made this decision for myself. I’m so happy I decided to live out my dream. I just hope that I can live it to the fullest and not let fear take the driver seat.
Do I necessarily love french food? No. Don’t get me wrong. Its good- sometimes life altering good. However, I don’t feel all my food needs to be sauced with butter, cream or some derivative of the two. But I love a French Kitchen. It is disciplined. It is regimented. It will teach me to be these things out of necessity, and by virtue, I will become a better cook, and hopefully chef.
I can’t wait for the day when my response is
“Well, I’m a chef.”
(I’m well aware what a blanket statement that is regarding French cuisine, that there is much more to it than my oversimplification, but not in my current kitchen.)