Application Process

So for school I needed to write an admissions essay... this is not something I'm used to. I decided to be transparent with this blog SO I decided to add it here. Let me know what you think. Thanks!

It was 7 am we had only been in New Orleans for about 5 hours, it was a long ride from Baltimore but the smell that just hit me made the trip the best idea ever. I was hungry, well I was always hungry but for some reason the smells that wafted through my Aunt Mildred’s house made a new hunger wake up in me, I needed to know what was going on. I decided sleep would come later, I needed to find the culprit. . I grabbed my best friend Sammy, my teddy bear-dog, and began my journey to find the smell that will evidentially change my life forever.

I walked through the house using my nose as a guide like a blood hound on a chase. Sammy and I arrived at the kitchen, what I saw was a bustle of activity. The kitchen had become a dance floor, 2 people dancing around but not even looking at each other. When my aunt would go up my cousin would go back, on at the chopping block one at the oven. Bending, turning all in the kitchen. I had only ever seen one person in the kitchen at a time.

I would watch my grandmother or my father cook, often. My dad would talk to himself the whole time, often eating the food as it cooked and getting very happy with the outcome. He would also make a mess of the kitchen until the last few minutes when he would wash everything. My grandmother was a much quieter cook. She would hum or sing if not fuss about the goings on in the other rooms of the house. She wouldn’t taste her food as she cooked she had full confidence in her sight and memory. She knew what it would taste like cause she had made it a million times before. If it was something she wasn’t sure she would call her sisters and they would walk her through it. If either one came into the kitchen while the other was cooking, it was like WW3. They would fuss each other out, and kick each other out the room. Often you heard "I don’t bother you when you cook don’t bother me when I cook". And I would sit and watch and take mental notes waiting for the chance to try a recipe or walk around the kitchen talking to myself, or on the phone with my granny getting a recipe as I cooked it.

This was totally different, the dance and the smells were totally foreign to me. They worked in silence adding things to each other’s pots when the other wasn’t looking. Ever so often looking up and winking at me with a smile. It was magical. Sammy and I sat in awe. With a smile and deep breathe the dance was over, the last pan out of the oven. A quick scan around the kitchen and finally my aunt yells "Breakfast!" I watched as my cousins and distant relatives complete with Bed head, PJs’ on and Eye crust in their eyes file in line one by one to eat good food and sit down, as I start to get up and get in line as not to miss out on the awesome my Aunt looks at me and tells me "Sit still, the cooks eat last sweetheart"

I wanted to cry. I was unsure if it was from happiness or sadness. I was so happy she called me a cook, but I was so sad I couldn’t eat. As I debated the irony of my predicament, my cousin handed me a plate. She smiled at me and said "JR Chef’s get an early plate to make sure everything taste ok, can you handle that job?" I shook my head scared that my voice would escape me if I tried to verbally answer. Before me was a plate of wonder and pure awesome. Fried Fish, Grits, a biscuit with some form of gravy on it, thick bacon, fried potatoes, cheese eggs and few pieces of fruit. Now the tears began to fall. It was so pretty, and I was so hungry. I had never seen these foods actually together for breakfast. I think I inhaled the food. My cousin stood and watched me. one I can up for air, drinking my full glass of milk she said "Safe?" I smiled and said "Yes Ma’am I think so".

After a quick shower and a hateful session getting my hair done, I took my seat by the kitchen I would spend the rest of our trip watching my aunt and cousin cook. Ribs, gumbo, rice and Beans, Fried chicken, Crawfish Po’Boys, even mini donuts covered in sugar. The end of that trip was bitter sweet, I of course was happy to go home see my parents and start tearing up the kitchen with the things I’ve watched for 4 days. But I never wanted to leave. I wanted to sit in my chair and watch them cook forever. But I had to go home. Summer only last so long.

When I got home, I began to cook anything. EVERYTHING! They didn’t all taste like New Orleans. Some were just plain nasty. But I tried. My father would later say "You were always a smarter and more adventurous cook than your grandmother and I, we are stubborn cooks. We do what we know, you like to try stuff you see, or think will taste good. Yes Culinary school will be great for you"

Still I struggled with the idea of being a chef. Even now I’m frightened by the idea of cooking for people other than my family and friends. When I cook I put my love in the pot and on the plate. I try to tell a story and invoke the same emotions I had the first time I fell in love with food. What do you do when they don’t love you back? How can a cooking school help me love people more? I want to learn how to make everyone feel loved. I want to know how food should taste and look, techniques and understand why I cry when I hear about a new recipe or taste an innovative dish. I feel and I know that L’Academie De Cuisine will help me start the journey to perfect the work that started, 20+ years ago in a kitchen in New Orleans.