Monday, June 23, 2008

From the begining...

Or how cooking saved my life you could say. After much thought and contemplation I decided that a little background was in order before my professional exploits are laid out for all who stumble across here to see. We could say that my journey down this path started eleven years ago when I got my first job in a kitchen, but the culinary world dug its claws into me as early as I can remember. Fortunately now, I just happen to be able to make a living doing something that, for me and mother, was such a deep connection it was almost omnipresent, always there moving around us.
I grew up with my mother, a single mom making ends meet off of disability checks and welfare, in a little shit town in Ohio. My Saturdays and Sundays as a small child of 5 or so ran the gamete from waiting in line at church soup kitchens and the Salvation Army for a generous disbursement of lentils, beans, shitty government cheese, milk and eggs 2 days spoiled.
But cooking the sparse goods the Salvation Army gave us every 2 weeks were the memories that stuck with me more than anything. Her hands would move across beans soaking them and cooking them fork tender, her face would beam with serenity as she worked that old milk and eggs into biscuits and brownies. And no matter how much I wanted the material goods I saw easily in the grasp of my neighbors, classmates and friends, I had the comfort of food made with delicate but worn and loving hands.
This was the connection that was the strongest between my mother and I, the craft of cooking. Even thought I was half way through my teens before I would professionally start cooking and I never cooked at home, I knew the feeling of love and care found in food. And like all teenagers, at times I took it for granted.
After cooking my way through high school I decided to enroll in culinary school and move to Pittsburgh. Also at about this time the pain of not having my father around had manifested itself in the form of a nasty, horrible temper and a drinking problem. Then one day in September, four hours away from home and two weeks into skills class, I received a phone call from my uncle. My mother had died unexpectedly in her sleep. I was crushed.
After the funeral and a month off of work, I returned to Pittsburgh. A chunk of me was vacant, and I didn't know how to fill it. I contemplated not going back to school but I figured that I had nothing to lose. And not until I set foot in the classroom again did I realize that the feeling, everyday, of molding things with my hands, seasoning, searing and tasting was my way of finding that connection I had with my mother all over again.
It changed me.
It pushed me.
It drove me.
I am the man I am through the loss of her, but in leaving she gave me so much.
Cooking is in my blood.

No comments: