On my way to class one morning, I had paused to review the job openings in the food service industry and the upcoming culinary team competitions posted on the bulletin board.  A photograph of a coastal village peppered with terra-cotta roofs caught my eye.  I took out my reading glasses and stepped closer.  “International Internship Program,” the flyer beckoned.  I pulled out the push-pin and freed the announcement. “Spend 10 weeks working in a five-star hotel restaurant on the Amalfi Coast of Italy.” TEN WEEKS IN ITALY? COOKING?  Italian cuisine was my favorite. Wouldn’t that be amazing if I could be accepted to the internship program? I decided to attend the information session.

There were about 100 students present that first day for the presentation, and I took the application packet with me after it ended. Only 5 students would be selected for the program and they would have to undergo rigorous written and practical exams as well as take an Italian language class.  There was no guarantee that I would be selected, but I needed to tell Craig that I wanted to apply.

I knew my husband wouldn’t be happy if I went to Italy for the summer, not necessarily because he would miss me while I was away, but because it was more convenient for him to have me at home. I had always catered to my husband’s every whim.  For nearly 40 years, I had arisen with him each morning to prepare his breakfast, kept a meticulous house, dropped off dry cleaning, took the dog to the vet, the kids to the dentist, doctor and sporting events, and met him at the door every evening with an appetizer and a glass of wine. I paid the bills and stuck to a strict budget that he dictated. I washed and vacuumed our cars. I painted, replaced wax seals on toilets and did drywall. I trimmed hedges, raked leaves and weeded because he didn’t like doing any of those things.

That Sunday afternoon we took a long walk with the dog, and I decided to broach the subject.

“Craig,” I started hesitantly. “My culinary arts program offers a summer internship cooking at an Italian restaurant on the Amalfi coast and I’m thinking of applying.”

“Why would you want to do that?” He asked mildly annoyed. “If you want to get experience cooking in a restaurant, you can do it here in Annapolis.”

“I think Italy is one of the most beautiful countries I have ever visited,” I replied as I recalled the trip we made to Rome and Tuscany with our youngest son, Eric, when he graduated from high school.

“I love Italian cuisine and the language is so romantic. To be able to cook in Italy would be an incredible experience.”

“You don’t need to go,” firmly.

“Craig, I need to do this. I’ve never done anything for myself before. I’m not asking for your permission. I’m telling you that I’m going to apply for the program.”

“I already told you how I feel about it. You aren’t going.” he said with finality. But it was almost as if he was trying to convince himself rather than forbidding me to go. He yanked the dog’s leash and stormed ahead of me back to the car. I felt let down and depressed as though all the air had been let out of my balloon. I really wanted to do this and felt that if he truly loved me, he would respect my desires. Hadn’t I supported his interests in the past? I felt miserable, but I decided that I was not going to let him talk me out of it.

Although I had been cooking for my family for over 30 years, I had learned a lot in the basic cooking classes that I took at Anne Arundel Community College’s Hospitality, Culinary and Tourism Institute (HCAT) in Maryland.

The kitchen facilities at HCAT were relatively new and would be the envy of any home cook. Down the center of the room six ten-burner gas stoves were lined up, along with a microwave, two salamanders (broilers), a deep-fat fryer, an indoor grill, a griddle, convection oven, steamer, tilting skillet,  flanked by gleaming, stainless steel tables.  Along one wall there was a sink for hand washing and three sinks for washing dishes: one filled with soapy water was for washing, one with clear, hot water for rinsing and a final sink filled with a cool solution was for sanitizing. The other wall held wire shelving stocked with herbs and spices, a variety of rice, pasta, grains, vinegars and oils, and pots and pans. Bins on one end of the room were filled with different types of flour and sugar. On the other end of the room was one large “walk-in” refrigerator which revealed fresh produce, meat and poultry and led to a walk-in freezer. Smaller “reach-in” refrigerators were located in one corner and held milk, eggs, cheeses and condiments. There was also a broom closet filled with mops and pails, a laundry room for kitchen linens and I noticed a large first aid kit on one wall.  (I wonder how often they needed it.)

We learned the principle of mise en place, or assembling everything you need for a recipe before you begin. How many times have you gone to make chocolate chip cookies to discover that you’re out of sugar? Mise en place guarantees that it doesn’t happen, especially in a restaurant kitchen.

We also learned basic knife cuts. The reason for making uniform knife cuts is to promote even cooking and uniform appearance of food ingredients.  Remember that Campbell’s vegetable soup you ate as a kid? We had purchased a “knife kit” as part of the required tools for the course.  It was a black fabric case with pockets in it for the chef’s knife, boning knife, paring knife and the steel for honing knives. We were taught how to sharpen the knives and how to hold them correctly to allow us to make very precise cuts rapidly, smoothly and without cutting off any fingers.  We took classes in basic cooking techniques, baking (The science of baking is fascinating.  Did you know that recipes are referred to as “formulas?”), garde manger (the cold kitchen), food science, international cooking, cost controls, and purchasing.

In our cooking classes which were generaly three to five hours long, the students were divided into groups and assigned certain recipes to prepare. The dishes would be critiqued by our intructor-chef at the end of class on appearance, taste and presentation. But first, we had to practice our knife cuts.  Our chef usually assigned about four or five different knife cuts which he had to approve before we could begin our cooking. For instance, the chef might ask us to do four ounces of julienned carrots or three ounces of large diced potatoes.

Did you know that a fine julienne cut (think of a match stick) is only 1/16 in x 1/16 in x 2 in?  And if you cut it into cubes, it becomes a brunoise cut. That’s really small. We learned a number of other cuts including the tourner (pronounced “toor-nay” – a two-inch long football-shaped food product with seven equal sides and flat ends). You are supposed to be able to exercise the cuts smoothly, rapidly and not injure yourself in the process. I actually tournered (is that a verb?) potatoes for dinner for my husband one night, but it took all afternoon. I’m sure I whittled off more potato than I kept. My husband was very impressed, but I’m not sure I’d ever do it again – certainly not for more than one person.

The concept of becoming a chef was filled with both anxiety and anticipation.

When I first enrolled in culinary arts classes, I noticed that the course descriptions in the college catalog stated, “In addition the student must provide the required uniform, a white chef coat, scarf, apron, checkered kitchen pants, black closed toe shoes and a chef hat.” A mandatory orientation session for all Hospitality, Culinary Arts and Tourism majors was scheduled for the next day and we had to wear our uniforms. I inquired about where we were to get this “uniform” and learned that the campus book store, located in the Student Center, sold uniforms along with all of the text books and supplies I would need for my classes.

The bookstore was noisy and crowded when I arrived. Long lines of students were queued in front of the registers, their arms laden with heavy texts. They chatted amicably with friends, listened to iPods or text messaged on their smart phones as they waited their turn to check out. The store aptly sold textbooks grouped by subject matter, a small selection of current paperback books, art supplies, spiral notebooks, college t-shirts and memorabilia.  In addition, there was an assortment of required equipment for various majors – stethoscopes and blood pressure cuffs for the nursing students, brushes, easels and large, black portfolios for the art students, and knife kits and uniform essentials for the culinary arts students. The uniform components were stacked in cubbies against the wall.  I picked up one of the plastic shopping baskets by the door and snaked my way through the crowd. My eyes were wide with wonder. I saw the white, cotton aprons (one size fits all), the black and white checkered pants with elasticized waist (I picked a medium but wondered if that was “men’s” or “women’s”), the triangular neck scarf, a hat (which resembled a deflated mushroom), a white cotton apron with long ties and a front pocket, and then saw the white chef’s jackets.

Oh, my – a real chef’s coat!  It was stiffly starched, carefully folded and lovingly (I was sure) packaged in cellophane.  I put down my shopping basket and lifted a package off the shelf.  The sticker on the package read:  “Traditional Chef Coat – 100% Pima Cotton.”  It had a short, upright collar; long, cuffed sleeves; a reversible, double-breasted panel on the front with two rows of fabric covered buttons; and a deep double pocket on the sleeve for a digital thermometer and a marking pen.  It was sublime!  I added it to the other uniform components in my shopping bag and headed for the registers.

Later that evening, I decided to try everything on and see how I looked as a real chef.  Let’s see, first I pulled up the pants and tucked in my white t-shirt.  Then, I put on the chef’s coat.  The double-breasted front allowed you to reverse the jacket and place a clean, white front on the outside and hide the one splattered with food and grease.  Next, I tied the neckerchief around my neck according to the directions that came with it – much like a man would tie his necktie.  Apparently, the neckerchief is designed to keep perspiration from your face from dripping into the food you prepare.  A professional kitchen is HOT with all those ovens and gas stoves going and everyone rushing around.  I donned the apron over my chef’s coat and wound the strings around myself to tie them in the front.  This allows the chef to hang a hand towel on the apron strings.  I pulled black socks onto my feet and slipped them into the sturdy, black clogs that would protect my feet from any spills and keep me from slipping on a damp kitchen floor.  Last, I placed the chef’s hat on my head and beamed!  I walked proudly over to the full-length mirror in our bedroom and my wide smile faded.

I looked exactly like the Pillsbury Doughboy^TM!  I was so bundled up that I appeared to be as wide as I was tall.  I didn’t look like a professional chef at all and my misery was apparent in my facial expression.  A big, fat tear rolled down my cheek. It was going to be embarrassing to show up in this outfit for the orientation the next day, but there wasn’t anything I could do.

The next morning, I repeated my dressing regimen without enthusiasm.  I felt so self-conscious and awkward when I got out of the car in the college parking lot and waddled to the auditorium.  As I entered the room, there were already a dozen students in attendance.  Our instructors, all executive chefs from local restaurants, were milling around a long table on the stage.  Then, I realized that they ALL looked rather portly wearing their chef’s jackets!  I lifted my chin, stood a little taller and made my way to one of the seats on the aisle.

As the next two years progressed, I became more comfortable in my chef’s clothing and my chef’s jacket, in particular, became a symbol of pride in what I was to become – a professional chef!

We all like to try new recipes, and I’m certainly no exception.  Although I favor savory cooking versus baking and desserts, a good meal deserves a sweet finish – something that will make your guests close their eyes and say “ahhh” with each bite.  I attempted a new recipe for a layered mocha pie at one of the first dinner parties we held for another Navy couple.  Little did I know that our guest had worked as a pastry chef prior to joining the Navy!  I had forgotten to thoroughly grease the pie plate and couldn’t get slices of the pie out of it for serving.  Using a spatula, I eventually served a crumbled chocolate crust and the chocolate mousse/coffee flavored whipped cream in one big SPLAT! Nevertheless, the Coffee Toffee Pie was delicious.