Welcome to "Traveling Circus", a series on food and life. Follow a vagabond culinary student trying to make it through cooking school with all her fingers intact. Enjoy these stories of food, life, couch surfing in New York City, and what happens when people stop starting grease fires, and start (hopefully) being decent cooks.
“I don’t like gourmet cooking or ‘this’ cooking or ‘that’ cooking, I like good cooking.” – James Beard
Day 1: Chopped
The first day of culinary school isn’t like regular school. It’s less about what you wear and more about who slices their finger first. And on my first day, that “who” was me. Our inaugural lesson was on basic knife skills. Chef demonstrated how we were to cut the carrot, the turnip, and the onion.
The man was a machine. He didn’t even look down. His eyes never met his fingers, not even once. He just starred at us, piercing our souls with those beady little eyes. Then it was our turn.
Go.
We navigated the kitchen in a frenzy. We clamored to get cutting boards and climbed over each other for bowls. After what seemed like hours, I finally got everything back to my station. The bowl of vegetables stared me down.
Who knew cooking could make someone this jittery? I reached for the onion with my hands shaking. Then, I grabbed the paring knife trying to remember the moves of that human mandolin. I began to removed the onion’s root when—slice! I cut open my thumb, which immediately poured blood.
Oh fuck. Panic took hold. My bloody thumb replaced the paring knife in my hand. I couldn’t think straight. Then I spotted Chef across the room.
“Chef, I seem to have nicked myself.”
Embarrassment rushed over me faster than the blood had rushed out. What was I doing? The combination of wooziness and nerves left me altered. “Nicked myself?” Who even talks like that?
My classmates stopped what they were doing. Everyone looked at the poor sucker who cut herself on the first day. Everyone but Chef. He didn’t even look up. He just pointed to the first aid kit.
Thus began my first of many culinary walks of shame across the kitchen.
For the rest of the day I had to wear a blue rubber cap over my thumb. The scarlet letter of cooking. Within minutes I received a text from my dad—a Chef who teaches at the school. I didn’t even look down. I knew what it said.
"How's the thumb?"
This situation was devolving. I had on a finger condom—the true mark of a novice—and now word has already gone around that Chef D’s daughter cut herself. On the first day. Peeling an onion.
By the end of day one the score was Knives:1 Muriel:0. Only time would tell who’d be the ultimate victor and who would be… chopped.
