Rebecca Walsh
First Blog post college writing Tu Th 11:30-12:45
9/29/15
A cook’s connection:
For most people, they have a happy place. A place where they can go and know that they will be free of judgement, from the stresses of everyday life and from the worries that consume all of our thoughts on a daily basis. For me, that place where I experience such escape is the kitchen. Any kitchen really will do, however the very small one that sits in my house back in New York the particular one that I am referring to in this case, the one that truly holds a special place in my heart.
Ever since I can remember, I have loved being in the kitchen. I was always that child in Schuylerville elementary school who volunteered to make all the treats for the upcoming bake sale, much to the delight of many parents of my other classmates. The “famous kitchen” my mom put together with her own two hands, with the clock that has spoons and forks for hands, was one of the places in my life that made me who I am today. The tools may not be the most fancy, with our old model fridge and our old-fashion natural gas stove, but they were more than what we needed to get the job done.
Each and every Christmas me and my mom get together in that space smaller than the size of my dorm room, in order to become a baking factory in preparation for the upcoming holiday, trying desperately to keep up with the overwhelming demand of our family and friends. To ballpark the numbers, come every December we make somewhere in the neighborhood of 18 pans of peanut butter fudge, 1200 cookies, and about four GIANT zip-lock bags full of homemade Chex mix (which we have to let marinate for a couple of days in order for the flavor to become just right). Needless to say we usually have to get our holiday shopping done early since our time is mainly occupied.
Even through all of the grueling hours of work make both of us a little cranky to say the least, us being together in that kitchen, working out fingers to the bone, is one of my favorite things to do that time of year. It’s a tradition in my family to do this every time the season rolls around. My mom did it with her mom, who did it with her mom, and so on and so forth. As we would sit in that kitchen, unwrapping all 1200 Hersey kisses to go on top of the cookies, my mom would tell me stories about the grandmother I never really got to know, and she would reminisce about the old times while saying how she couldn’t believe another year had come and gone. She would talk of the second job my grandmother would get at Christmas time to pay for all the materials they needed, but how it was worth it in the end when she got to sell all the extras that were left over. I was even told that she was so specific with ingredients, she would know exactly how many packages to buy so that there was the perfect amount of chocolate, to the perfect ratio of peanut butter, to just enough powdered sugar to bring it all together. Every year we blast music in that kitchen, we dance around, and just forget about our stress and our hardships for a short time. We actually once even blew a circuit in our house because apparently between the radio and the hand mixer, our houses electricity system just couldn’t handle all of the stress.
That was where it began for me in the kitchen. From there I continued my passion for cooking and baking (more so on the baking side) for years on end always looking up and developing my own recipes form the models that others had created before me. I loved being able to go into that kitchen, make a mess, and end up with a beautiful and delicious product that I could be proud of and that others could enjoy. This new mindset that I had adapted then went on to translate to tons of other parts of my life. I learned that if you want a good product, or a good outcome for yourself, you need to put in the work to achieve it, but it would be incredibly worth it in the end.
My passion simply continued as I got older and by my junior year of high school, I was watching cooking shows and YouTube food videos like a mad woman, everyday discovering little tips and long-kept secrets of some of the best chefs and bakers around.
I learned everything that I could, trying to soak up information on how to make my kitchen, and more importantly, the creations I made in my kitchen, the best that they possibly could be. I picked up tips that I shared with my mom, friends, and family and to this day it is a rare occasion that I follow a recipe to the exact instructions without putting my own spin on it.
At this point in my life, I had discovered not only my passion for food, but also my passion for a healthier lifestyle, and therefore I was exposed to a whole new world when it came to cooking. I was now exposed to the remodeling of the same old recipes that I loved, to make them a much healthier alternative. It was a challenge that was perfect for that summer and was a challenge that one again made that kitchen a place I loved. That kitchen became my own personal laboratory where I was determined to continue to make foods that people loved, that were just as amazing as their original counterpart, and that would change people’s mind about healthy and delicious food. That kitchen was a place where I was constantly trying different methods and ideas to see which ones were the winners and which ones were the flops.
Although I had many flops in that kitchen (many, many flops), it was, and continues to be a part of me. It’s not just a place I go to without thought, nor will it ever be a place I dread going to. I know that this Christmas, when I go home to that small kitchen at home, I will still smell the fudge and the cookies that my mom will have had to make without me this year, and I will feel both an incredible sense of happiness, along with a touch of sorrow. I’ll be a little sad that I won’t be able to take part in it this year, but I know that the kitchen will still welcome me back and we will have not seen the last of each other yet.
, skipping from wave to wave while a fierce mist of cold salt stung our faces with every landing. Finally after half an hour, we turned off the engine and slowly glided towards the looming cliffs, jutting out of the calm inner bay. For an hour we threw ourselves out into the warm summer air, shot through a rush of freezing water, and raced aggressively to the rocks, shivering, only to wrench ourselves up across the vertical surface once again. It wasn’t until late afternoon that we got back on my boat and untied from the mooring, only to realize the engine would not start. Blood rushed to my cheeks as I realized I was in total control. My friends didn’t know how boats worked, and my dad was not there to help me. Slowly as we drifted towards the rocks ashore, I yelled from person to person frantically trying to get everyone to the front of the boat. My eyes darted from engine, to throttle, to the hydraulics, and finally to the fuel tank. It had to be the fuel tank. I quickly rearranged the connection to the fuel tank and let out a deep breath as the engine roared once again. It was in that moment that I was first introduced to the sense of true responsibility. It had been me and only me who would have been responsible for the shattered fiberglass hull as it would have been pounded again and again against a rock dagger barely protruding from the water. I was on my own on the water, an independent operator, and slowly I found a sense of freedom.