Now that midterms are finished I find I have an abundance of time to get back to writing. Here is the second part to my story of how I became a chef. The definition of chef is variable for sure. I often speak with my professors, and one always asks me how the cooking is going. One day he asked me what the difference is between a chef and a cook, and I had no answer. Some people say you are not a chef until another chef calls you a chef. Others say you must run a kitchen. I found the proper definition of a chef to be a professional cook working in a kitchen, who has the knowledge and skill to visualize, plan, and implement a menu. This includes a well rounded knowledge of ingredients, the ability to manage time well, and to manage cooks working along side you. I say well rounded knowledge because it is my belief that it is impossible for any one person to know everything there is to know about cooking. There are too many cultures, foods, techniques, and cuisines to know let alone master them all. This is really what drew me in to cooking in the first place, the never ending book of knowledge surrounding the culinary world.
Most people think I went to culinary school, this couldn't be farther from the truth. I spend countless hours working in kitchens learning the tools of the trade. Here is how it all began.
As I mentioned in my previous post, I am the youngest child in a Polish immigrant family. If there is one thing the Polish are known for...it's food. We have so much food. Pierogies, golumpkis, kotlety, potatoes, stuffed peppers, the list goes on and on. So we ate lots of food in my family, and worked outside doing things to make it by. Burning wood to save money on oil, remodeling apartments, raising chickens, etc.
So growing up I had this connection, or lack thereof, with good food. Our family made it by, but we were never "rich". We saved money by buying cheap ingredients and living meagerly. Part of this included one pot/pan meals that were either hit or miss, but we ate because we needed to eat. Me being the youngest, I was always very picky with my food. You could ask any member of my family, getting me to eat healthy foods was near impossible. I remember one week we had potato and kielbasa soup for a week because it was all I wanted to eat, and it was worth every bite.
But never did my family make a special meal just for me. I ate what what the family ate end of story. There was no "feed the kids first, then make something for us". We ate what was prepared, and we ate as a family. Now I see families making separate meals for their children, which quite frankly aren't always healthy, and then preparing meals for themselves. I get it children come first, but that takes so much time out of your day.
Anyway rant over, that is how my connection with food started. I would always try to help make pierogies, eggs, and french toast. Really simple things. I didn't know I enjoyed cooking then. I just liked to help. So by 3rd grad I started making breakfast for myself, burning eggs and spilling cereal. In fourth grade my teacher gave us a recipe for some egg dish. In hindsight I think it was a giant "Danish" omelette. I decided to make it for my family. Of course my mother helped. It had potatoes, bacon, eggs, and cheese layered in a pan. With all that fat of course it tasted great, but the process was a mess. At one point we had to flip the "omelette" into another pan and it broke. That is all I remember about the first time I fed my family.
From there I continued to make breakfasts: french toast, pancakes from box mix,eggs, etc. I would make breakfast for my brothers son occasion. One day I was making french toast, and I was under the impression that soaking the bread in the egg mixture for longer would make it taste better, hint not really. When it was all set and done, my brother cuts into one, and egg wash starts coming out. That was an embarrassing moment, but a learning experience none the less.
Our family often times housed missionaries or pastors from other states and countries because my father was a pastor. We would have visitors for a weekend who would visit the church. One of my favorites was Gusthaf, a missionary from Congo. I decide to make breakfast on a Saturday morning for my father and Gusthaf. I am in fifth grade, so about 10 years old. My newest invention was a "fritatta" which isn't new by any sense of the meal. I would whisk eggs and fry them in a pan like an omelette. During the cooking I would season with everything I could find, because more seasoning is better right? So I made three "fritattas", which took more time than it should. The first two were fine, and the last one was a disaster. The top of the salt shaker fell off, and salt poured into the last one. That one being mine, I scooped the salt out the best I could, and traded it for my fathers eggs. Then I called them to eat and it started out well. Halfway through my father says "it's way too salty", he then takes another bite and spits it back onto his plate. That must have been where the shaker fell. I felt like an ant, so embarrassed that I failed. Gusthaf noticed this and said "it tastes really good". But of course coming from his background where there is no food and people are starving every day, anything edible is worth savoring.
So come middle school I was now left to fend for my own breakfasts, most of the time eating sugary cereals any time they were available. My family never bought sugary cereals, but when they did, it lasted for maybe 2 days. Come 7th grade we were required to take a foods and sewing class, to learn the basics of cooking and sewing. We made smoothies after a few weeks. So guess what everybody drank at home? Yes smoothies for weeks. Then we made english muffin pizzas...so guess what we all ate next. Notice a pattern yet? We made cookies, guess what I did next. So...many...snicker-doodles. I couldn't stop, it was an epidemic. And then...came the stir fry. We learned how to cut some veggies and make rice. Ultimately making a stir fry. Guess what I made for the next six years?
My specialty had become making stir fries, and my family enjoyed it. Come high school, I had begun playing football and lost a lot of fat. I took a foods class, which taught us the basics of food prep. Such as mashed potatoes, turkey dinners, sandwiches, meatballs, etc. We had one woman come in and perform a food demonstration. She made steamed turkey wontons. The next day I buy wonton wrappers and spend all of my time making wontons. The younger of my two older brothers would help and we made so many wontons. Of course it was a tedious process because I had no skill, but they were delicious none the less. So now I'm making stir fries and wontons religiously by the age of 15.
At this point my focus was on football and weightlifting. My goal was to bulk up, so I started making breakfast sandwiches with eggs, bacon, cold cuts, veggies and ALL the condiments. From this point my cooking didn't change for a few years because my only goal was to become a footballer. This included managing my time effectively to lift and do homework.
Two years later in April 2008 , I had just turned 17, my father, brother, and a few others are sitting at Friendly's. My father asks to speak to the manager, who proceeds to arrive. My father explains how he had worked for the Friendly's corporation for many years as an engineer. He asks for an application for me, and I fill it out. After a few days I call back and schedule an interview. I met with the assistant manager, because they were in the process of hiring a new general manager. I applied as a cook, but was put on fountain making ice cream.
This was awesome for me, I got to actually make money. What was this some kind of scam? You mean I get a paycheck, and can cash it, AND can buy whatever I want? I didn't open a bank account for weeks. I bought everything I needed/wanted including but not limited to: clothes, work boots, video games, pizza, protein powder, and some other things I can't remember. I was so excited to make money.
