And do you realize that 2007 was seven years ago? Seven years ago. I was twenty-six (for most of that year). I was catering and cake-ing like crazy, and I had no idea what I was doing, but the money was great and I was always exhausted and my office job was making me itch (though my coworkers were wonderful) and the crazy little hamster wheel in my head was beginning to fling the first turds of hmm, maybe I should go to culinary school....
I tried to do one of Those Lists about food, once. It went something like this:
1. LIST OF THINGS I LOVE.
2. LIST OF THINGS I HATE.
3. LIST OF THINGS I WOULD EAT UNTIL I POP LIKE A STINKBUG.
4. LIST OF KITCHEN PEEVES.
5. LIST OF FAVORITES THAT VALIDATE MY FOODIE-NESS AND MAKE ME SOUND ECCENTRIC.
Whatever was on that list, it probably tried to be a lot fancier than the throwback list you're about to read, though there may have been similar notes of goal and idealism, anchored by cynicism and mildly assertive self-aggrandizement, with a buttery mouthfeel and an oaky finish...?
Pass the chardonnay.
1. I'm Lisa. I'm a chef. There's nothing fancy here. I can cook well. I have some recipes memorized. I'm organized. I think that, once I get things down, things run smoothly.
[1a. Would I have what it takes to be a Gordon Ramsey? or a Thomas Keller, or an Alice Waters? Possibly. Even probably, in the right slow-cooker of pressure and experience and guidance (read; verbal abuse). But only because I'm a perfectionist who values mastery, not because I love it. The sacrifices would wound, not reward, because I don't love it that much. I would make myself miserable so I could convince everyone who admires my work that I'm blissful doing it. And so... no.]
2. I love boxed mac and cheese. Velveeta Shells & Cheese is my kryptonite; the kind that comes with the powdered quote-unquote cheese runs a close second. Were there no consequences to anything ever, I'd eat it daily. If you've been around here long enough, this is probably the eighteenth time you've heard this.
[2a. I eat boxed mac and cheese maybe once yearly. Not to be judgy-judgy at all, but how can you eat it more often than that? After I eat it once, I feel all parched and bloated from the inside. Like a fake-cheese-hungover blowfish full miserable self-injury, dragging my swollen cankles around. No, thank you. (Except that once-yearly thing. Mmm, sodium.)]
3. I'm not entirely positive that I want to be a chef forever. I'm not positive that culinary school was the best decision I could've made. I wonder, sometimes, if I shouldn't have stuck out my undergrad and gone to seminary instead. But I know for a fact that, if I'd forfeited culinary school for seminary, the experience would've been a completely different color than it will be when I finally do attend, and, frankly, I don't think the experience would've been as meaningful or transformative. That whole getting older thing, you know? I don't think I was as ready for, then, it as I will be in the next ten years.
[3a. But not for one second of my life do I regret leaving Tennessee (which I love), moving to Florida, attending culinary school, or pursuing professional standing in the food industry. It's been equal parts the hardest thing I've ever done, and the easiest fit I've ever found. Ability-wise, I'm a fish in water, plus the bicycle, and I love thriving in a difficult industry. Fulfillment-wise... well... I think fulfillment will be broader. But I don't even know what that means, so: MEAT!]
4. I hate cooking meat. I'd commit to happy shrub-munchery forever if it meant I never had to temp a steak, et al. Not that I'm incapable; my perfectionism is paralyzing, sometimes. You have to get it just right, and don't poke at it or you'll mess up the sear, and leave it alone leave it aloooooOOOOH MY GOD DO YOU SEE THIS YOU CALL YOURSELF A CHEF IT'S SHOE LEATHER WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU. Give me a good braise or roasted shoulder/butt any day.. but that's kind a cop-out. A sumptuous, everybody-loves-it, I-don't-care-what-you-think copout. I don't care who you are: if you eat meat, and someone puts pulled pork in front of you, you'll eat pulled pork.
[4a. Yet, oddly, I have a knack for fish, and, no matter the fish or preparation, I can nail it every time. *throws up hands*]
5. Favorite fast hot meals: 1) egg + salty butter + toast sammich; 2) pasta + salty butter/olive oil + parm with black pepper; 3) whatever leftovers I squirreled away, unlabeled, in the freezer: every meal, an adventure.
[5a. Favorite fast cold meals: 1) leftover roasted chicken + a good roll + Hellman's (Kraft = Astroglyde.); 2) cheese + grape juice + guilty sneaks of more cheese; 3) Chef Boyardee Beef Ravioli. Cold. Straight out of the can. (see point 2a.)]
6. CASSEROLE WHORE.
[6a. EVEN BIGGER CASSEROLE WHORE WHEN IT'S LEFTOVER AND REHEATED PUT MORE CHEESE ON IT AAAAAAAH]
7. I could write a treatise on this: Our hunger drive is one of the most primitive, fundamental drives we have. To feed someone is to nurture them on a number of primal levels. And any brokenness on such a primal level is something we should grieve. Everyone has their food habits and preferences, and, although some are just outright unhealthy, I hate to see people shamed about their food choices more than I hate to see them making those poor choices. Shame might try to masquerade as education, but shame is toxic, belittling, and paralyzing, while education is enlightening, empowering, and, most importantly where such personal matters are concerned, usually solicited. Even if you mean your words to educate, the silent judgments you try to mask will shine through every. single. time. And most unfortunately, the people who will be quickest to sniff you out will be the people who have already know the sting of shame - the people who most need education, but who are too afraid to make themselves vulnerable to it.
[7a. I will not have that crap in my orbit. I just will not have it. It is primal; it is fundamental; it is sacred. Mind ya bidness unless you're invited, and, if you're lucky enough to get an invite, treat it like the holy ground it is. Change your heart, if you have to, before taking off your shoes.]
8. I ate way too much falafel tonight.
8a.
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