I never meant to be a cook

I am a first generation American of Asian descent. What that means is that I was supposed to be a doctor or a lawyer. Also admissable although not preferred would be some other very financially successful and stable profession. Preferably business related.

I never wanted to get into cooking, or working in restaurants professionally. It was always something I liked doing, a hobby, an interest, the fun thing you do in your free time, or with your friends. Or for your friends. I never wanted to do it as a job. They say never to do something you love as a job, otherwise you’ll end up hating it. I never wanted to hate cooking. And so I always tell people that I never chose cooking as a profession. It chose me.

I went to “normal” school, not culinary school. I studied Psychology, Anthropology, and Latin American language and literature. I went to a liberal arts college, and without a doubt got myself a liberal arts degree. I went to school to study and get a “real” job after I graduated, so I could go and make “real” money in the “real” world.

My senior year in college though, I began to worry about my lack of job direction. At that point, I knew I wasn't going to be a counselor, psychologist, or social worker. I thought I'd look into the restaurant thing and check out the fine dining place near campus. They weren't hiring at the time, but the chef liked something he saw during our meeting and opened up some dishwashing shifts for me. Soon after, I began to do minor prep work near the dish pit. That morphed into some line work, along with the dish shift after that. It was a tiny kitchen with strict French trained standards, but I really really got to do a lot in there. I eventually and very quickly took over the Sunday brunch chef position, which I think would have given most people an arrogant pride...but I had to dishwash the next evening. Pride smushed.

But I loved it. I loved it. I loved being in a professional kitchen. I loved the pace, and the ticket calling, and the shelves and shelves of ingredients and the cramped spaces and the tetris-like skills required to pack things away or take things out. I was also lucky that the sous chef of this restaurant was female, because as my first restaurant job, I never felt like the underrepresented gender in the kitchen. I never felt like being a girl mattered. I just really liked what I was doing, and I think it showed.

Until I decided to actually cook professionally. Like, for real chefs of real companies, who have real reputations to rely on. All of a sudden, I noticed that I was a girl. But I really really wanted to be in the kitchen. I liked it. I wasn't scared of the boys. And it showed. I think those around me noticed, and you can like me or not like me, but I did my job and did it pretty well. At least I hope I did. When you like what you do and are having fun doing it, sometimes it's just not work anymore. My family may not have approved of the job choice, and my parents definitely still think I should be doing something more financially stable at this point, but no one can tell me I'm not happy doing what I do. This all does really make me happy.

For a minute though, I experienced what it might be like to hate what you do. Hate is a really, really strong word. But I clearly remember the moment, and it kind of scared me. I had never felt this way before. Ever. I might’ve hated plating a really complicated dish, or prepping for yet another holiday banquet, or complained about some whiny customer…but never, ever hated the actual cooking part of it.

And I remember thinking, so this is why so many cooks don’t want to do this. It’s not fun. It’s not creative. It’s not yours. People tell you what to do. People don’t care how long you work. People don’t care how hard you work. You never make enough money. You never get a day off. You never get the credit for anything. You don’t have time for laundry. You try to pick out the most non-smelliest clothes out of the laundry. Wear it again. Go to work again. No one ever remembers your name. No one even knew your name in the first place. You get told to do this, then yelled at for doing that. Or not doing that. Do it again tomorrow. Don’t like it again tomorrow. Hate it again tomorrow.

That’s scary to me. And I’ve felt this way several times recently. And you know it’s not about the money. I’m not afraid of the long hours, or the hard work. I was practically born to be a leader amongst the slaves. I love what I do. You know I do. Or apparently, I usually do.

So I don’t like the way I’m feeling right now. I’m usually at my most natural when I’m cooking and feeding and dealing with food. Your job is not supposed to be your life, but for me (insert violin here), food is my life. I don’t (usually) consider it a job. But I don’t even cook for myself anymore, and these days, I cook even less for my friends. In fact, I don’t even have the time to go over to their houses so that they can cook for me.

I’m not sure what to do. The Professor tells me to back away for a bit until something comes to mind, that while I have the time, to not force anything now and enjoy something else in the meanwhile. Which is probably a good idea. I don’t want to hate what I do. If this is even a glimpse of what it’s like to be manic depressive or bipolar, I hope to never experience either on a diagnostic level. And I hope that I’m always sensitive to those who are, because it’s not a fun ride, and not one you can prevent, either.

I want to be happy doing this. I used to be happy doing this.