My Life Story in a Post

For my first real post, I would like to give you a better idea of who I am and my history with food.

I grew up in a home where we had family meals almost every night. Even as a young child I would often help my mom in the kitchen, shucking corn or perhaps stirring soup. I distinctly remember that I was not allowed to use the stove, oven, toaster, or microwave without one of my parents present. When making food for myself, this limited my options a bit. I have 3 other siblings, 2 older, and 1 younger. We were all very close. We used to hold "surprise brunches" for my parents: we would make up elaborate fruit plates (although my mom hated fruit); cut toast into triangles and stack them like a log cabin, fill the granite-top buffet next to our dining room table with boxes of cereal; run barefoot outside in the dewy grass to cut flowers from our garden for the centerpiece. There was  divider that hung from the ceiling that could pushed to one side or pulled shut to hide the dining room. We would close this and wait for our parents to come upstairs, most likely already awake and waiting until the clang of plates and pitchers quieted until all that could be heard was the muffled giggling of excited children. I remember one time I wanted to make oatmeal, but since we couldn't use any of the appliances, I simply poured lukewarm water into the oats, which floated on top like the water skeeters we would catch in our creek during the summertime. My mom tried to microwave the oatmeal, but I wouldn't let her touch mine. Inevitably it was she who was left with the half full plates of food, cluttered table, and the centerpiece of flowers full of tiny ants. But she did not discourage our fun.


I remember clearly the first time I used a knife. I didn't have permission, but I wanted to cut an orange... or what it a grapefruit? I cut my hand open, and I remember it wouldn't stop bleeding for the rest of the day. I kept it hidden from my mom because I was afraid of getting in trouble. It wouldn't be the first time I cut my hand with a knife. The second time I was about 8. My parents were still asleep and I was upstairs with my little brother, making a surprise breakfast for my older brother who had come home from boarding school. I was cutting a frozen coffee cake with a long serrated knife, holding it up and down with the blade facing my palm. What can I say? I slipped. 8 years old; I did not have much experience with proper cutting technique. I ended up with 9 stitches and a bag around my hand for my school's annual pool party. I wish I could say that was the last time I cut myself, but even professionals make mistakes, and I have acquired several dings and cuts over the years.

The summer between my Junior and Senior year at High School, I interned at a restaurant in Philadelphia through the Julian Krinsky program. I stayed with approximately 50 other interns all placed in different career internships. I was only culinary intern in the program. The restaurant I interned at I did not have a choice in, but it was the most positive and enlightening experience I have ever had in cooking. The restaurant was 333 Belrose bar and grille. It was a cute, classy, upscale place, with 8 dollar soups and 30 dollar entrees. I worked mostly in prep for the first week. You better believe I can julienne vegetables like nobody's business. I also was given the opportunity to work pantry, which meant I worked during the lunch rush on sandwiches, appetizers, and desserts. I learned how to make the best calamari on the main line, and a chicken sandwich I fell in love with at first bite. The kitchen was all men, which was... interesting to say the least. They were all great guys, and I came out of it with some spanish cusswords, a crush, and 20$ won from a bet. This is not to say that my experience was all wonderful. I believe it was all useful, but it made me realize I did not want to become a chef. I woke up every morning at 6:00 am, and didn't get back "home" until about 5:30 pm. Most of the days were filled with repetitious prep work, and it was less about creating than I hoped it would be. I didn't want to have my days filled with that and come home not wanting to cook dinner. To become a chef, I think you have to absolutely love every aspect of what that means. I still think it would be fun to be a food critic, or the editor of a food magazine, but those are far away for me.

The next year I was a senior, and as a requirement to graduate had to complete a project. I think I worked harder than anybody else. My project was to create a cookbook. I chose a theme, picked basic recipes, experimented with them, created some from scratch, arranged the food, photographed it, photoshopped it, put it all together in a powerpoint mockup, and researched what it would take to self publish. I still hope to publish my book someday, if only to have a hard copy for myself, but it isn't done yet. It was extraordinarily fun and difficult at the same time, but I had the support of my family and friends, which meant more to me that can be expressed. Towards the end of the year I held a giant dinner party at my house. 23 people crowded around my dining room table, both leaves inserted, more than a dozen folding chairs, and nobody sitting who was not touching somebody else. It was a sight to see. Mismatched plates, cups used as bowls, and my moms wedding silverware- the only flatware in the house with enough of everything. The menu was as follows:

Drinks
Mango Lassi
Eastern Spiced Milk
Strawberry Lemonade

Appetizers
Gnudi
Chilled Peach Soup
Cheese Soufflé
Baked Applesauce

Main Course
Spinach, pumpkin and risotto torte
Chicken Salad sandwiches
Pizza (homemade crust, working on the toppings: vegetarian)
Meatloaf with brown sugar glaze

Desserts
Sweet Potato bake
Chocolate Molten Cake
Blueberry Crisp

It was extremely stressful, but by the time all the food was out and everyone was seated, we had a great time. I have hosted much, much smaller dinner parties -if you can call them that- at my house before. I enjoy cooking for other people and seeing their reactions to the food, whether it is something they have never tried before, something they thought they wouldn't like, or an old favorite. At my senior project dinner party, I single-handedly converted 3 people who had previously not liked meatloaf with mine.

I finished the project with an A, and although I buttered my teachers up with some brandy snaps beforehand, I truly believe I deserved it for all the work I did and everything I learned. I was able to explore my many different interests, and I look forward to continuing my research and cooking with this blog as a motivator and journal.

Thanks for listening, happy eating.

Laura