The hotel where I would be working, Hotel Santa Caterina, was located along the road just before the center of Amalfi.  Amalfi is on the waterfront, but has no beach. The town of Amalfi used to rival Venice and Genoa as a substantial maritime republic and its maritime law, the Tavole Amalfitanae, was the ultimate authority in the Mediterranean for centuries. Amalfi was the home of Flavio Gioa, the inventor of the maritime compass. The main piazza is dominated by the Romanesque styled Duomo di Sant’Andrea, founded in the 9^th century, the Piazza Duomo, and Museo della Carta, the 13^th century paper museum. A tourist destination today, it features a cluster of cafes, souvenir and retail shops around a central piazza or square. 

           The piazza was bulk-headed with large, gray boulders and there was one long pier stretching out to meet ferries and the occasional cruise ship. Even though it was early when I arrived for my first day of work, people sat outside the cafés sipping their cappuccinos and eating croissants, delivery trucks were unloading their wares, kayakers were in the water playing basketball with a floating basket, and the ferry was boarding for Naples. I exited the SITA bus I had ridden from Positano and started the one-mile trek up the hill to the hotel. 

           The road was steep and passed through two tunnels cut into the rock. I stopped to catch my breath and watched a construction crew hollowing out the hillside to expand one of the tunnels. A man with a tan, weathered face led three donkeys down the road with panniers filled to the brim with heavy rocks. I watched as he unloaded them into a pile on the side of the road.  A small dump truck was parked nearby, which looked like it would take the rocks away later in the day. I wondered how many trips the workman made up the hill each day with his donkeys. It was hard enough walking up the steep road just once—without pulling three stubborn animals.

            Hotel Santa Caterina is curved to fit the road and clung to the hillside several stories down between the road and the sea. It was cream-colored stucco with dark green trim adorned with window boxes spilling with colorful flowers. A brass plaque to the left of the front door identified it as a “Five Star Hotel” and a “Member of the Small Leading Hotels of the World.” A valet in black pants and a gray long-sleeved jacket trimmed in burgundy opened the car door for an arriving guest. Another deftly removed luggage from the trunk and followed the guest into the front door. Red, yellow, silver, blue and white motor scooters were huddled by the employee entrance to the left of the main door. I was a little nervous as I entered the hotel and walked up the ramp to find the kitchen.

           The head chef, Domenico Cuomo, (we call him “Chef” and everyone else is called by their first names) welcomed me and told me that the laundry staff would wash and press my uniform for me. My Italian was sketchy, but we managed to understand each other. He had one of the girls who wash dishes show me where to take it. I noticed that there weren’t any men washing dishes either, although there was one man who was not a chef that furiously operated the espresso machine for the restaurant and staff throughout the day.

           He had one of the dishwashers, Conchetta, show me where the locker room was so I could change.  I had carried my chef’s uniform on a hanger that first day. Conchetta led me down three flights of stairs (Ugh! I’m going to have to walk back up) to the basement where she let me share her locker. The room was the size of a coat closet and I was sweaty from the walk uphill.  I started to wriggle my damp body into the freshly pressed uniform. Then I trudged up the stairs to start work.

           The hotel had two kitchens – the main one serves breakfast and dinner and the lower one, by the pool, serves lunch. The pastry chef, Roberto, spoke some English, so they decided to start me with him for the first couple of weeks and would gradually shift me to the savory side of the kitchen.  

           Roberto, greeted me as he dusted flour from his hands with a dish towel.  He was short and stocky with a graying crew cut and smiling brown eyes framed with glasses.

 “Good morning, Mar-cha.”  (The Italian pronunciation for “ci” is “ch.”)

            “Buon giorno,” I replied.

                       Roberto beckoned me over to a quieter corner of the room where a long marble table was surrounded by a large double oven, three small refrigerators, a sink, a rack of wire shelves holding baking pans, and a bank of flour and sugar bins. This was his domain as pastry chef.

            He handed me a paring knife and showed me how he wanted me to cut strawberries, pineapple, apples and oranges for a fruit salad. I washed my hands and started slicing the fruit into large glass bowls. Roberto laid out 210 small plates on the marble counter and began arranging the fruit. It took us most of the morning. I helped Roberto transfer the plates to a wire holding rack.

            Then Roberto opened a huge can to expose what looked like a large transparent green pear

            “Che cosa è? What is it?” I asked.

            “Cedro,” he replied. “It is the fruit of the cedar tree,” he replied. 

I didn’t even know that cedar trees had fruit, but later learned that this was citron, which is primarily candied and used in many desserts like fruitcake in the US.

            “Is very bitter when fresh, “he continued. “ It must be canned with zucchero (sugar) for 3 or 4 months before you can eat it.”

             We cut the fruit into strips, rolled them in sugar & dipped them in chocolate. We also made Cantucci di Firenze – like small biscotti that you are supposed to dip in Vin Santo liqueur after dinner. Biscotti means “twice baked” in Italian and that is exactly how these are made. Unlike savory cooking which you do basically by the seat-of-your-pants method, baking is a science with ingredients that have to be weighed and measured very precisely.

           When Roberto told me it was time for lunch. I washed my hands and followed him to the buffet where we helped ourselves to grilled chicken breasts, penne with a plain tomato sauce and oven roasted potatoes.  He led me out on to the porch and indicated that I sit down at an empty seat next to him.  I was the only woman among 12 men at the chef’s table and I felt a little self-conscious. I don’t think they’d ever had a woman chef at Hotel Santa Caterina before.

            “Buon appetito. Enjoy your meal,” Roberto said to me.

            “Altrettanto. Thank you, the same to you,” I replied and cut a piece of the grilled chicken breast.  The chefs were conversing in very rapid Italian and I could only understand a few words.  Then I heard Chef’s staccato reply but only caught the words “signora finite” in them.  I knew they were talking about me and Chef had told someone to wait until I was finished. I ate as quickly as I could and excused myself.  Perhaps someone was not pleased to be eating lunch with a woman?

            After lunch I helped Roberto make dinner rolls for the hotel. He showed me how to pinch off a portion of the dough and roll it on the counter top to make it round and firm. We had filled several sheet pans of rolls to be baked after I left that afternoon to return to Positano. I was exhausted!

In mid-May following completion of the spring semester, Craig drove me to the Baltimore-Washington International Airport for the departure to Rome. I don’t think he really believed I was going to go through with this until that morning. I knew he didn’t embrace the idea of my being away all summer, (remember, we were supposed to be spending time together?), but he hadn’t stopped me from going. I kept reminding myself that he was the one who suggested I follow my passion.

           The other students were there when we arrived. None of us really knew each other well and living together would be interesting—like a real life “Big Brother” episode.

           David, quiet, lean and dark-haired was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that said “Italian Lover” on the back. His mom, dad, and sister were there to see him off. Boisterous Ben, who looked more like a tall, blond teddy bear, was there with his parents. Brandi, blonde and beautiful with a big smile was there with her mom and her two young children, a boy about eight years old and a daughter about four years old. Kirsten, a stately, darker blonde arrived with her boyfriend. Everyone hugged good-bye and the head of HCAT had her assistant take pictures of us.

           Craig didn’t cook, except for the occasional hard boiled egg or baked potato in the microwave, but I had left him two giant pans of lasagna and had carefully labeled operating instructions on everything from the oven to the washer and dryer. I walked him through the military commissary and had pointed out the dry cleaners and the vet for the dogs. I assured him he would be fine without me and promised to e-mail. I reflected later that he was either going to really appreciate all I’d been doing or discover that he didn’t really need me. I hoped it was the former.

            We departed forNew York, and after a short layover at JFK, boarded the plane toRome. The flight was long, but we were filled with so much anticipation that we couldn’t sleep. Upon our arrival the following morning, we maneuvered through the immigration lines, retrieved our luggage to take through customs and began searching for a young man named Seth, who was to meet us. None of us knew what he looked like, but five Americans looking lost were easy for him to spot.  Short, well-tanned and easy-going, Seth sauntered up.

            “How was the trip?” he asked as he shook hands with each of us. “Is anyone hungry or thirsty? We can get something from the snack bar before we get on the van.”

            We each withdrew Euros from the ATM machine and selected something to take with us on the trip to Positano. Seth led us to the van which was parked curbside and helped us load our luggage. Originally fromAnnapolis, he worked for a global education company and had helped set up the internship program for HCAT.  He spoke fluent Italian and would be our contact and primary resource while we were inItaly.

            The southern edge of the Sorrento Peninsula south of Naples is called the costiera amalfitana, orAmalfiCoast, and is distinguished by the majestic Lattari Mountains (1400 m) that plunge to the sea.

           There are three islands just off the coast of Positano, Li Galli, which were supposedly the home of the Sirens in Homer’s epic about Odysseus. Prior to the mid-20th century, the towns could only be reached by treacherous mountain paths on mules or by sea.  Today a tortuous winding road connects the towns of Positano, Praiano, Amalfi, Minori and Maiori.  As our van rounded a corner, we got our first glimpse of the town.

            At one time Positano was an isolated fishing village where lemons and olives were cultivated in its terraced gardens.  Its primary industry was maritime trade during the 16^th and 17^th centuries.  Ancient olive and citrus trees still hug the hillsides, but the only boats in residence are small rowboats for the local fisherman or ferries that arrive brimming with tourists. 

            Our apartment sat in a hollow in the center of the village, accessed by walking down more than 200 wide stone steps. It was spacious, clean and actually larger than I imagined it would be.  There was a combination living/dining room, small kitchen, three bedrooms, and a bathroom with a washing machine in one corner. The walls were white-washed stucco and the floors were rosy-colored tile. There were clean towels in the bathroom, the beds were made with fresh sheets and the kitchen was furnished with pots, pans and eating utensils. Our louvered front door was draped with mosquito netting (I think that is supposed to tell us something). Clotheslines strung from fragrant lemon trees in the front yard and our “lawn” was comprised of rich soil planted with evenly spaced basil plants.

            We began to unpack and get settled in the apartment. David and Ben shared the largest bedroom, because it had twin beds.  Brandi took the medium sized room with the double bed and I agreed to take the smallest room (I swear, it was 4 feet x 10 feet and my bed is so narrow, that it is more like a cot than a twin bed.  (Oh well, it will certainly be cozy.) My room didn’t have a closet, so I stuck two self-adhesive hooks to the walls.  I put clothes hangers on one (which later in the week fell down when the self-adhesive hook gave up its sticky qualities) and hung a small mirror by its handle on the other.  I could only see one eye at a time, but that would have to do.  My large suitcase was stacked next to the dresser, but there was just enough room to squeeze by to get into bed. I placed a travel alarm next to the lamp on the bedside table and was done (much easier than unpacking an entire household of belongings inAnnapolishad been). Kirsten slept on our sofa the first night, but was going to be sharing an employee apartment in Ravello near her hotel. 

            The next morning, Seth picked us up in the van and took us toSalerno, an hours’ drive east of Positano, where we stayed at a youth hostel in an old convent for two nights while we waited for work permits. There weren’t a lot of tourists in Salerno, and we were immediately immersed in Italian language and culture. The hostel was only a couple of blocks from the waterfront and I took a walk one evening while the other students went in search of their first real Italian pizza. It was very peaceful along the waterfront which was bordered by a park.  Families strolled in the twilight and I watched from a park bench. As darkness draped the beach, I decided to return to the hostel. The next morning we were returning to Positano to visit all the hotels, meet the chefs and tour the kitchens. 

            The first hotel we visited was San Pietro, where Brandi would be working. Etched into the cliffs on the edge of Positano, San Pietro was probably the most luxurious hotel I have ever seen.  Intricately laid marble floors, highly polished wood and glass framed water views from the lobby. Brandi’s chef was Belgian and could speak several languages, although no one else in her kitchen spoke any English.  She was delighted to be working as a pastry chef and was quite experienced so it was a good match.

            Ben would be working at a fine dining establishment in Positano, Ristorante Max, which boasted an extensive wine cellar and art gallery.  The proprietor of the restaurant was a close friend of Seth’s.  The kitchen was small and Ben would be working with three other chefs, who were all cheerful and robust. There was a very relaxed atmosphere to his kitchen. Ben was a very casual person, so it also looked like a good match.    We were treated to an amazing lunch that first day before we proceeded to tour the other restaurants where we would be working.

            Le Sirenuse, in the center of town where David would be, and Hotel Santa Caterina in Amalfi where I would be, fell into the quiet elegance category.  They are both members of the Small Luxury Hotels of the World.  David seemed very pleased with his chef and the facilities at Le Sirenuse. Apparently no other culinary school in the world, except one in Holland, sends culinary interns to the Amalfi Coast. We’d been told how lucky we were, but it was just starting to sink in. 

            Palazzo Sasso in Ravello, where Kirsten would work, was also exquisite with gardens, fountains and views across the valley towards the sea.  Her chef also spoke English but was very formal and stern.  He explained to me that Kirsten would be treated the same as all the other employees.  I learned later from Seth that the chef had thought I was a teacher/chaperone because of my age. As we toured the kitchen, we noticed that everyone was working very hard and no one was talking to each other.  Kirsten had wanted to work in the savory side of the kitchen, but her chef informed her that she would be working with the pastry chef. She is normally a very confident young woman, but I could see doubt cross her face.  This might not work out very well.

            After our tour of all the hotels was completed, we dropped Kirsten off at the employee apartment where she would be living in Ravello and the rest of us returned to Positano.  Ben and David walked into town to pick up some essential food supplies (olive oil, garlic and toilet paper) as well as bottled water and ingredients for a pasta dish which we all shared for dinner.  Hmm, living with three other chefs might not be so bad.

            Later that evening I wrote postcards to my family to let them know that I had arrived safely and that we would all be starting work the next day. As I climbed into bed and turned out the lamp, I reflected on a line I’d read once about how the “real” you is the one you are when no one else is around.  Here I was 58 years old trying to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I wonder who the real me was going to be?

The next day after my husband left for work, I opened the glossy, white folder containing the application forms.  There was a myriad of paperwork to fill out – an application form, liability and photo releases, emergency data information and a scholarship application.  I would need to supply copies of my passport, nine photos for my Italian work visa and proof of medical insurance. I also had to schedule an interview with a school psychologist (had they had problems with interns in the past?). To prove an acceptable level of culinary expertise, we had to pass a practical exam.

The practical exam had me worried the most. First, we had to demonstrate our knife cuts by doing 4 oz. each of carrots in the julienne cut, carrots in the brunoise cut, potatoes in the batonnet cut, minced parsley (it needed to be VERY finely cut and then washed in cheesecloth and wrung out so it was fluffy), and potatoes in a medium dice. In addition, we had to fabricate (cut up) a whole chicken and produce two supreme breasts (these are boneless breasts with a small wing bone scraped clean and still attached).  Finally, we had to use one of the breasts to prepare a plate that included a sauce, starch and side vegetable. The details were left to our imagination. I decided to prepare chicken au poive with a brandy cream sauce, risotto Milanese which is made with saffron and sautéed broccoli with red pepper strips.

Chef Parmenter, my instructor in the second semester basic cooking class I was taking, and two other executive chefs judged our creations and did a critique afterwards.   Chef Parmenter had been an Executive Chef who had worked up through the ranks at kitchens in Atlantic City, New Jersey. I had never fully understood how someone became a chef. It was interesting to learn that you could work your way up in a restaurant kitchen or complete a certificate, two-year or four-year culinary arts degree program.

When my creations were plated, I approached the long, stainless steel table at one end of the room where the chefs were sitting.

“What is this,” queried one of the chefs as he lifted the edge of my chicken breast distastefully with his fork. He reminded me of Simon on “American Idol.”

“Chicken au poive,” I answered.

‘The pepper overwhelms the mild flavor of the chicken. It’s very juicy and tender, but no one would eat something this spicy.” My husband and I enjoyed chicken prepared this way, but I just sighed and kept my mouth shut.

“How did you manage to both overcook and undercook your risotto?” asked the other chef. “Risotto is one of my personal favorites, but this is hard and mushy at the same time!”

“She did a nice job on the vegetables,” piped in Chef Parmenter. “They’re very colorful, he said as he smiled at me.  I returned to my work station and started to clean up.  I noticed the chefs angrily criticizing the dishes prepared by the other students as I wiped the counter top and washed my dishes. After the practical exam was over, Chef Parmenter came over to me and told me that I’d done just fine. He said the school needed to make sure the students they sent to Italy were well-qualified and would be good representatives of the school.

In the end, only five students were selected to participate in the program. I had not yet completed the Culinary Arts Certificate Program at HCAT and was both surprised and delighted that I was accepted. David, Brandi and Kirsten were in their mid 20’s and Ben was 18. I was in my 50’s!

The head of the Hospitality, Culinary and Tourism (HCAT) program held monthly information meetings for the interns. She gave us information about the hotels where we would be working and a detailed “what to bring” list that included 2-3 uniforms and our knife kits. She told us that each of us had to complete a scrapbook about our experience to include photographs and ten recipes that we had learned. At the end of the program, she would be coming to Italy to evaluate us by having a conference with our chefs and by sampling a “signature dish” prepared by each of us.

The front desk staff at the Italian hotels generally speaks fluent English, but the kitchen staff might not. Thus the students participating in the program would need to complete an Italian language class. I have always loved the Italian language and had already taken a year of classes, but no one else in our internship group spoke any Italian. The HCAT department arranged for a series of evening classes to help prepare us for our trip.

Mr. Paterniti was tall and stout with a deep, melodious voice. He was not a native Italian but spoke the language fluently. He provided us with handouts on cooking terms and food names which were very helpful, but class sessions consisted primarily of his reading the food names while salivating over every item. Classes seemed to stretch out forever, but I must admit that we left class hungry!

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.

           When I first got married, I didn’t know how to cook.   My parents had grown up during the Great Depression and had learned how to manage without a lot of extras. My father was a journalist in the Navy with four children, and it was still difficult for them to make ends meet with such a large family.  Our meals were pretty plain – a small portion of meat, starch (usually potatoes in some form) and a canned vegetable. School lunches (we could never afford to buy lunch, and subsidized lunches weren’t available then) consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread and two vanilla wafers. We brought milk in a thermos, which still managed to warm by the time we ate lunch. We never had after school snacks, and we never had dessert after dinner. We were a close knit family, though, as Navy families tend to be.  Our parents loved us dearly and we didn’t recognize the fact that we were lacking anything.

           I met my husband when I was attending college and he was going through the Navy flight program in Pensacola, FL.  I still lived at home and he lived in the bachelor officers’ quarters (BOQ). He had graduated from the US Naval Academy where they had a dining hall that fed them and people that took care of their laundry. Those same amenities were offered at the BOQ, so neither one of us had really lived on our own and neither one of us had learned how to cook.

           I still recall the first meal that I prepared for my husband in our tiny rented apartment. I purchased ground beef, kidney beans and chili seasoning and was proud of the pot of chili awaiting him when he returned home from a day of flying.  At the time, I didn’t realize that you could enhance a bowl of chili by serving it over rice or by adding grated cheddar, diced onions or sour cream as a topping.  I could see a look of doubt on his face, but he never complained.

           I have been a Navy wife – recognized as “the toughest job in the Navy” – for over 40 years.  During my husband’s Navy career, we moved 29 times and traveled to 24 countries. I’ve enjoyed learning about the history and culture of the places we have visited and sampling the regional cuisine. During our travels and at each of our duty stations, I’ve taken occasional cooking classes and have requested recipes from hostesses and chefs.  When my husband was attending the US Naval Test Pilot School, the TPS wives formed a gourmet group that met once a month and hosted a theme dinner.  Three or four of the wives would decide on the menu and do the cooking, and they would tally up receipts for food purchases that would be divided among those participating. It was a great way to challenge our culinary skills while enjoying an inexpensive dinner with friends.

           When my husband retired from the Navy and accepted a position as an aerospace engineering professor at the US Naval Academy, he suggested I find something to do (I think to keep me out of trouble). Our three children are grown and live out of the area, and I wasn’t working.

           “What is your passion?” he asked me.

           No one had ever asked me that before.  What is my passion? Webster’s Dictionary defines passion as “a strong or extravagant fondness, enthusiasm, or desire for.” I had done a lot of things over the years, but I didn’t think I felt strong enough about anything to label it as my passion. After thinking about his question for a couple of days, I finally decided that I really enjoyed cooking.

           “Then, take some cooking classes,” he suggested.

           I searched the local newspaper, telephone book and then the internet to find cooking classes offered in Anne Arundel County.  Then I discovered the Culinary Arts program at Anne Arundel Community College in Arnold, MD and began taking classes part time. I was nearly 60 years old and my fellow students were in their late teens and early twenties. I thought I knew how to cook before I started the program, but I realize now that my experiences had only touched the tip of the iceberg.

A rooster was crowing somewhere.  The room was still dark, but the sky outside the small rectangular window high on the wall above my bed had lightened to a pale gray.  I opened one eye and tried to focus on the clock—5:45 AM.  I was tired and the idea of getting up early for work didn’t seem as much like a good idea as it had the night before.

I dragged myself out of bed and went down the hall to the bathroom.  After dressing and applying my makeup one eye at a time (the mirror on my bedroom wall was too small to see anything more), I pinned my hair up.  Picking up my chef’s uniform on its hanger, I quietly slipped out into the cool morning air without waking my roommates. Their shifts also started at 9 AM, but they were all working in restaurants in Positano and could get up later and still have time to walk to work. I needed to catch the bus to Amalfi at 7:05 AM.

The costiera amalfitana, orAmalfiCoast, is located on the southern edge of theSorrentoPeninsula south ofNaples and is distinguished by the majesticLattariMountains that plunge to theTyrrhenian Sea. The town of Positano, where I was living for the summer with three other culinary interns, was known as la citta verticale, the vertical city.  It was impossible to walk anywhere without encountering hundreds of stone steps. Faded pastel-colored stucco houses perched on the cliffs with the older, bougainvillea-draped homes at the top. Laundry danced from balconies in the sea breezes.  Narrow cobblestone passageways tumbled down the hillside, lined with expensive shops selling hand-made leather sandals, brightly-colored beach ware, hand-painted ceramics and products, like Limoncello liqueur, derived from the huge, aromatic lemons for which the area is known. Candles with a sweet citrus scent and bars of lemon-scented soap perfumed the air. There were numerous hotels and restaurants, a deli, a coffee shop, a couple of Tabacchi shops and an internet cafe near the bottom of the village along the gray sand beach.

Our apartment sat in a hollow in the center of the village, accessed by walking down more than 200 wide stone steps. (That meant that to leave the apartment, you had to walk UP all those steps!) As I left for the bus stop, I passed a man sweeping steps outside a barber shop.  Small garbage trucks stopped to collect trash bags set outside the doorways of houses and shops. A stout woman with a watering can showered brightly colored flowers in clay pots on her balcony.

“Buon giorno,” greeted a woman walking her dog down the hill.

“Buon giorno,” I replied as I trudged up the hill.

The sea was calm – a darker gray than the horizon.  There were a couple of fishermen in their bright blue and yellow rowboats just off shore. The sun flashed a smile as it peeked around the mountains to the east. I reached the stone bench at the bus stop just as I heard the rumble of a diesel engine and the big, blue SITA bus came to a screeching halt in front of me.

Because the villages along theAmalfiCoastare cut into the steep cliffs, the road connecting them is a series of hairpin turns along the cliffs.  The hotel where I was working in the town ofAmalfiwas curved to fit the winding road and clung to the hillside several stories down between the road and the sea. It was cream-colored stucco with dark green trim adorned with window boxes spilling with colorful flowers.  A brass plaque to the left of the front door identified it as a “Five Star Hotel” and a “Member of the Small Leading Hotels of the World.” A cluster of motor scooters, yellow, silver, blue and white, huddled by the employee entrance to the left of the main door.

I entered the open doorway and went down three flights of stairs (Ugh! I’m going to have to walk back up) to the basement where I shared a locker with one of the dishwashers.  The room was the size of a coat closet.  I quickly changed into my uniform, took a deep breath and climbed the steps to the kitchen.

Pots and utensils banged as a woman gathered them from the end of a stainless steel table and took them to the sink where hot water was streaming into a sink of soap bubbles.

“Buon Giorno,” greeted Roberto, the pastry chef.  The whirr of the large floor mixture added to the cacophony of the kitchen as he added eggs to the homemade mayonnaise that he was making.

“Buon Giorno, Roberto.”

I stepped aside as a delivery person pushed a dolly stacked with crates of vegetables into the kitchen.  He handed an invoice to the head chef who began checking the items to make sure the order was complete.  An animated discussion ensued, the chef’s voice sounding like a staccato typewriter as he questioned the delivery man about the freshness of the fennel and eggplant.

A waiter entered through the swinging door from the dining room with a tray of dirty dishes.  He placed it on the counter, gathered up a basket of fresh croissants and quickly returned to the dining room.

Everyone in the kitchen was Italian which challenged my language skills. They were always shouting across the room to each other and dramatically waving their hands around. I only understood part of what was being said and sometimes felt like I was living in a Godfather movie!

I retrieved a fresh apron from a drawer in the kitchen and tied it around my waist. In the mornings we did a lot of prep work.  At first I thought they were giving me all the tomatoes to dice, carrots and potatoes to peel and zucchini to shred with the mandoline because I was the intern or apprentice (or maybe a woman? InItaly, the kitchen is a man’s domain. Only our dishwashers were female).  But I looked around and noticed that everyone else was also dicing and slicing ingredients for the day’s recipes.

This morning I was separating the basil leaves from the stems and getting ready to wash them.  When I was finished with the basil, I minced the garlic and then diced cherry tomatoes for the tomato sauce and grated fresh Parmigiano cheese. My final task for the morning was to peel and cut carrots into a julienne cut (think shoestring potatoes – very thin slivers).  I was told to fill an entire bucket with carrots which took most of the morning.

The kitchen staff at the hotel was organized more like the French brigade system. Instead of having a number of line cooks, they were all station chefs and were assigned specific duties in the kitchen based on either the cooking method or category of items to be produced.  The grill station chef was responsible for all grilled items and also prepared the employee lunch for the day, which we ate at 11:30AM before the hotel lunch service began. The Executive Chef (we just called him “Chef”) posted the daily specials on the bulletin board along with that day’s employee menu.  The employee lunch was generally some type of meat, a vegetable and pasta of the day.  Today’s meal was breaded chicken cutlets, green beans and macaroni and cheese. The hotel fed about 60-70 employees for lunch and another 20 at dinner time.

The chef’s lunch room was an enclosed porch just off the kitchen.  The table was always set with a white table cloth and paper napkins.  There were platters of fruit, baskets of fresh bread and bottled water – both acqua naturale and gassata—on the table.  Only the chefs sat on the porch. The other hotel employees used a lunchroom that was down one flight of stairs in the basement.  I was the only woman among 15 men at the chef’s table and feeling a little self-conscious, I ate quickly and returned to the kitchen.

In the afternoon, I helped one of the chefs, Alessandro, make pasta dough using a dough hook and a huge mixer that sat on the floor.  He placed the big ball of dough on the “pastry sheeter.” This was a piece of heavy equipment that resembled a wood planer, if you’re familiar with woodworking equipment.  It was about 6 feet long and sat on the floor.  It had a waist-high 18 inch wide conveyer belt on it.  In the center was a “press” that you could adjust downwards.  You controlled the forward or backward movement of the conveyor belt with levers on the side of the machine.  Each time the dough moved along the conveyor belt, you lowered the press a little more so that you ended up with a thin sheet of pasta dough when you were finished.  (The Pastry Chef also used the sheeter to make “laminated” doughs—these are the ones with layers and layers of dough alternating with butter that are used to make flaky croissants.)

Next Alessandro laid the long, thin sheet of pasta dough on a large marble table.  He showed me how to brush it with an egg wash that would help the ravioli seal when we added the top layer.  (I had made ravioli several times at home, but they always came apart.  Perhaps this egg wash was the secret step I was missing?)

Chef used a spatula to put pumpkin ravioli filling into a pastry bag and then piped teaspoon-sized portions of the filling at intervals along the pasta dough.  Alessandro placed a second sheet of dough over the first and let me cut heart-shapes around each “lump” of filling with a cookie cutter.  We pressed them together around the edges to seal each piece of ravioli and placed them on a metal sheet pan.  Then the sheet pan was put into a flash freezer that would freeze them solid in just a couple of minutes.  The finished raviolis were stored in a plastic container in a regular reach-in freezer until needed for service.

I glanced up at the clock and noticed that it was almost time to go home. We were always so busy that the day passed quickly. Removing my soiled apron, I tossed it into the laundry basket and dashed down the steps to the locker room. I changed into my regular clothes and hurried back up the steps to street level, emerging breathless from the hotel just as the bus arrived.  The bus ride along the winding coast road took about 45 minutes and was crowded with tourists. Back in Positano, I maneuvered down the cobbled alleyways to the internet café near the beach to check my email from home and then headed back up the hill to the main piazza.  (My legs were certainly getting a work out here!)

Fresh tomatoes were displayed in crates outside the deli along with eggplant, zucchini, fennel, onions, garlic and a dazzling display of fresh flowers. I decided to stop and get something for a light dinner. The deli was narrow with shelves on one side stacked from floor to ceiling with paper products, pasta, olive oil, vinegar and canned goods.  The refrigerated glass case on the other side held a vast array of meats and cheeses.  I selected two ripe, red tomatoes, a fresh baguette, a bottle of olive oil and a wedge of soft provolone cheese. The old man behind the counter weighed and tabulated my purchases, placing them in a white plastic sack for me to carry back to the apartment.

At the apartment, I unpacked my purchases and drizzled olive oil on a crusty slice of bread.  I layered it with a slice of provolone and a juicy slice of tomato for my dinner and took it outside to eat on the porch. We had two metal chairs that sat on our porch which was shaded by lemon trees and overlooked our yard of evenly-spaced basil plants (no grass).  It was a very peaceful place to read and I needed to review my Italian language before the next day at work.