The Making of a Young Chef

My life has never been my life. Ever since I was young, I had been used, used to the point where I thought that's all I was suitable for. Some people might look at me and see a perfect person with a perfect life, and the reality is if I didn't have to go through the things I went through at such a young age, I might have had that perfect life. I've experienced things and seen things that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemies, things I have shared with no one in my life. And here I am, sharing them with the world.

At a young age, I was the problem child at school, and I caused many problems. I got into fights; I talked in class, I broke things. On the surface level and to everyone around me, I was just that. A kid who wanted to cause problems, but I was a kid crying for help on a deeper level. I tried to get away from myself just as much as people wanted to get away from me. The thoughts in my mind at such a young age were too much to bear. At first, I thought I could get help, but every time I told someone the things I had been through, specifically adults, it'd be written off as my Imagination. Let me tell you one thing; Elementary Kids imagine Power Rangers, Dinosaurs, Magic. They don't imagine being molested at a young age. I quickly understood that the adults in my life weren't there to help me in the school system. Instead, all they wanted was to get their paycheck and leave.

Even worse was my own family didn't believe me. At home became worse; I was "Tainting the family name," "A disgrace." My father, the man who "rescued" me from these situations, wrote my experiences as Imagination. The worst part was I believed them. I grew up writing all of these bad memories as my Imagination. "It didn't happen," I'd say to myself, or "You just imagined it." Because I said these things repeatedly, I didn't think anything about the abuse I experienced. I don't even value the words "I love you" anymore because the same people who looked me in the face and said these things time and time again were the same people doing these things.

Growing up, I felt I had no one I could trust, not even myself, and lying became a hobby for me. I never let anyone get close to me because if you get too close to me, I run the risk of telling you everything I've been through. So I made it a habit of making my life seem as perfect as possible to people, starting with the clothes I wore. I was always the kid to overdress. The things I wore seemed expensive, but in reality, they weren't. I maintained myself fairly well through middle school and early high school. I quickly realized that lying was a pretty good way to get what you want. I mean, as long as you kept track of your stories and never got caught in the act. Although in middle school was when I put my con artist career in the grave. My stepmom told me if I had gotten all A's, I would get a new gaming laptop. Those of you who didn't grow up escaping reality into video games or weren't into the gaming community. These run for about $500 for an okay one. I was determined to get that laptop, but I was down 1 point in Advanced Science and Two points in Advanced math during my grading period. It was the end of the fourth quarter, and I had to make a fantastic play if I wanted to get that laptop. So I put the school system to the test. At the end of the grading period, report cards are uploaded to a system that stores them. I understood that if I wanted to do this, I would have to perform it quietly and under my father's radar. I added 10 points to my grades that were a B and subtracted a few that went above 95. I printed, and the job was almost done. All I had to do was get the report card to my mom before the system updated itself and changed the grades back. Simple enough, right? After I had completed the deed, I felt like a million bucks. I had a new laptop on the way, and no one got hurt in the process—way to go, Agent Jones. But I failed to account for my mom sending the report card to my dad. "John, come to my room. NOW!" my dad's voice billowed across the house. I didn't know what happened, but I knew it couldn't have been good.

"I'm so proud of our son! All A's we have to take him out." My heart sank reading that message and seeing an attachment of the forged document. I was caught red-handed. More to that story includes a long list of chores and punishment, a very impressed teacher, and an equally unimpressed officer. But the point was I had gone through great lengths to get what I wanted and attempt to maintain the image at school. I didn't go to jail, but I feared my mind and what it was capable of. Fear of self and memories at a young age is a recipe for disaster.

My freshman year of high school started like any other year. I went to class, and I went to band practice, and I went home. It was pretty routine, but the problem was I couldn't run away from my mind. When I was younger, flashbacks began building up. I had learned from taking the anger out on other people, so I decided to take it out on myself. 17 February 2017. I remember this day vividly because it was the day I decided to kill myself. I had thought about it for some time. I had it planned out, and it was supposed to be foolproof. I had the blade I'd use and the place I'd die.

The thing I didn't account for was surviving. My parents, of course, made big assumptions about the cuts on my arm. "Why would you do that to us." "You're attention-seeking." "You're just like your mom." Word bombardment after bombardment, I just zoned out. I wasn't supposed to be there at that moment. I was supposed to be gone. I was supposed to be free. Of the pain, the memories, everything. My father rushed me to the hospital, and lying in that bed. Everything came rushing back from elementary. I tried to tell the psychiatrist everything I could, but my dad sat there, and he was the "angel" on my shoulder, telling me everything I should say. "You're not suicidal. It was all for attention, right?" He'd say, and my response would be. "Right." And that was the story I fed the psychiatrist. The first one was smart. She saw through the play-act and ordered me to go to inpatient therapy.

I was elated on the inside, finally, someone who has to help me. I can talk to someone without having my parents toy with my brain. But my parents were prepared for that and demanded a second opinion, all for me, they'd say. The second ate the whole story like it was a five-star meal. He cleared me for outpatient and sent us on our way. No medication, nothing. I left that hospital the same as I went in, with a few cuts on my wrist that would eventually heal over into scars. I didn't know scars at the time, but I'd be lying about well into my teens.

The next day I returned to school as if nothing had happened, back into the routine. My grades dropped, not because I was any dumber or because I couldn't do the work. I didn't care. There was one class, though, that brought joy to my life. This class wasn't like another in the school because, in that class, the only thing that mattered was your skill and focus. It was culinary arts. I knew I had loved cooking for a while, not because of my family, although they are great cooks. But just something I was called to do. It was something that was always there for me on my worst days. When I'd cook, people would eat. To me, they were eating a story on the plate, no a symphony I had orchestrated and put together. That's what drew me to cooking. It was an outlet for me to not only express myself but take my mind off the world. The best part is, I was pretty good at it. While learning the basics, I fully immersed myself in it; every knife cut, stock, or plate I made had my all into it. It helped that I quickly understood that there are so many dangers from burns to cuts when you're in a kitchen. If you let your mind wander even for a second, you would quickly be brought back down to earth with a burn from a sauté pan or a swift cut from your knife. There was no room for error in the kitchen. Being in the kitchen became my therapy. I would spend hours in the kitchen after school. I'd get to school early and wouldn't leave till almost 10. My dad hated it, but this was my rebellion against the world that hated me. I trained long and hard. I worked for catering companies, fast food, even in Fine dining establishments before I was 18. Hours and Hours of work, and long hours I felt amazing. But that never got rid of the memories, helped me let people in or make friends. I was still spiraling. Whenever I'd get a break, I found myself face to face with life again and again. I started looking for other outlets, not because of my job, but because I was dealt a shitty hand with life. I was twisted and mangled on the inside, and to me the only thing I could do was escape until I got back in the kitchen.

It didn't take long for me to see the path I was spiraling, and I was about to graduate high school. I still maintained my perfect image in school, at work, and everywhere but in privacy. I've heard of the chefs spiraling, becoming drunks, doing drugs. I don't know their reasons, and quite honestly, I didn't care. What I knew was that I didn't want to be them, and I was running out of time finding out what I wanted to do when I graduated. My first instinct was I'm just going to work. I have experience already; I'm not the best, but I'm not the worst, but then I started thinking about culinary school. I could go to a place for people like me, people who found their home in the Industry and wanted to cultivate that. It didn't take long for me to realize that the Industry is very different from the school. I read reviews and articles saying the school trains the basics but doesn't prepare you for the Industry. I was already on the track to attending Johnson and Wales to be in their culinary program. I was excited but nervous. What if I am hurting myself in the long run. Culinary school isn't cheap, and the only real way to get a decent job is with experience. I knew I couldn't afford culinary school, and my parents said they would help, but there was this unspoken agreement about it that the school part would be all by myself. They'd help through positive encouragement. So I needed to find a way to get out of this trap that would put me in debt.

I'm not sure if It was by divine interference or sheer luck, but Johnson & Wales shut down the campus I was planning on attending, and I saw a way out of the culinary school. I quickly began looking for work studies, apprenticeships in the Industry. Ones that would teach me everything I needed to know while I was in the restaurant. It's now been five months, and I have enjoyed most of my time on the job. But I can't help but crave more. Currently, my apprenticeship is paying me to work, and I have an apartment in the Alps in Pennsylvania. But I'm missing the crucial part of running down to the market to grab things for a new dish that I want to make or going out and making friends. I've found myself, and I'm just cooped up. I still wonder to this day, if I hadn't gone through the things I went through would I be a chef? I want to think so, but I can't help to think if I was normal, I wouldn't survive the culinary Industry at a young age. I keep asking myself, "If I could afford culinary school, would I even go?" The answer is always a surefire, yes. Without a doubt, I would go. Culinary is my passion, and I have the experience. But getting the time to hone your craft and only hone your craft in culinary school is something you can't replace. Many of the chefs I have worked with call me rebellious. But none of them have insulted my skills. I'm determined to blaze my trail despite everything I have been through. My life was hard, but at the end of the day, you can change the past. I am here asking as a young culinary professional who is determined to place his mark on a world that so far has pushed him down and continually kicked him. This Industry has given me the confidence I need to be my true authentic self. To some, the heat on the line and the angry chef is torture. To ME, though, it's the only home I know.