Apologies to anyone who tried to access the site over the weekend. Apparently my blog wanted to take the holiday off as well. A tech glitch meant the site was down for two days. So sorry if anyone took the error message personally, but thank you for the emails. We’re looking into what went wrong, to make sure it doesn’t happen again. —Tara
I haven’t seen much of my friend Anne the past year or two. She’s been keeping busy in a kitchen, though not the one in her house. Anne’s been in culinary school.
I occasionally see updates on Facebook, how she has homework researching spices. Researching spices. These reports are always accompanied by her own excited commentary. It’s rare to hear anyone this enthused by homework.
This winter, I got an email from Anne. She said her final project for culinary school was a special meal each student planned and prepared for a group of friends and family, served in the private dinning room of the school’s restaurant. She wanted to know if I would come as one of her guests.
Everything Anne and her classmates had learned in their course pointed towards this project, which is called Chef of the Day. Anne planned her menu, analyzed the cost and the waste. There were certain elements that had to be included—like stocks they had learned to prepare, or certain cooking techniques. Other students were assigned to serve as sous chef and commis, to assist in preparation and execution. Months of planning and dreaming went into this one meal.
Not only would they be serving it to their friends and family, they would be graded on it as well.
That is how I found myself in the kitchen of the Seattle Culinary Academy one recent Friday afternoon, surrounded by student cooks dressed in white. I had been given permission to come a little early, to take photos of Anne and her classmates.
Though I never expect to work in a restaurant kitchen, or even want to, I am fascinated by them. They are gritty, often hot, unglamorous places that turn out beautiful food. I have never romanticized professional cooking. I know how hard, fast-paced, and often brutal it can be. But I am fascinated all the same, because commercial kitchens are places of passion.
No one ends up in a kitchen by accident. You have to want it. Something about knocking yourself out cooking for people you don’t even know has got to speak to you. Making food, giving sustenance and pleasure, the simple act of feeding others must thrill you deep inside. There are a lot of ways to make a living, and most of them are easier than cooking in a professional kitchen.
Here, at the culinary school, were a whole group of students who felt that passion, who wanted to do the hard and often unglamorous work of preparing food and feeding people. It was a wonder to watch.

The culinary school has its own restaurant, called One World. The more advanced students work their way through the restaurant in rotation, prepping and serving meals for the public. Anyone can come for lunch, and the menu changes regularly.
This particular day, in addition to regular lunch service, there were two Chef of the Day projects being served. When I finally saw my friend, she was deep in prep.
Professional kitchens are exciting places—the energy and tension is just under the surface as everyone goes through their appointed tasks of prepping, cooking, and plating the food to be served. There is such focus, such controlled chaos. Sometimes it feels like being in the eye of a hurricane.
Soon Anne and her crew were plating our meals and it was time to sit down and be served.
At first glance the opening course seemed to be a salad, tiny greens, crumpled egg, and wisps of prosciutto. It looked lovely.
Then, before we knew it, the server poured a warm consommé over it, bringing the dish to life, with cubes of daikon that were braised silky smooth and the surprising pop of tiny pickled mustard seeds. It’s been quite awhile since I tasted something so delightful, so playful.
The next course was equally beautiful, maple and lemongrass-glazed sturgeon on grilled rice with tempura-fried lemon slices and rainbow chard, the stems of which had been diced into the tiniest of cubes that glittered on the plate. I don’t even like fish, but I think I could eat that dish every day for a week. The richness of the fish was cut with tangy lemon and the depth of the greens, all rounded out by the glazed rice. I was sad when the last bite was finished.
Then, it was time for a palate cleanser. A ginger apple sorbet with bits of shiso leaf hit the spot.
But there was more! A braised beef daube with wild trumpet mushrooms was soft and earthy, paired with a creamy pureé of parsnips mixed with goat cheese. Bits of popped buckwheat lent inventive texture while wispy shavings of horseradish added zing. This was comfort food at its most sophisticated best. At that point, I was ready to curl up and go happily to sleep.
But Anne was saving something very special for the end. The servers carried out a plate that looked so stunning, it was art unto itself.
I wish I could order each of you a serving of this lemon panna cotta with pomegranate seeds, thin slices of candied kumquat, tiny basil seeds, and small sable cookies made with powered green tea. Whoa Nelly.
Have you ever felt sad as you were eating something extraordinary—because you know that soon it will be gone and you’ll have no more? That’s how I felt eating Anne’s dessert that day. And what’s worse, I can’t go back to the restaurant and order it again. I can never eat it again (though some of us are planning to beg Anne to make it for us on our birthdays, I’ll let you know how that goes). I don’t know that I have ever been dazzled by a dessert the way I was by this one. I wish you could all taste it too.
Then, when we had spooned up the last bit of our dessert, and sadly said goodbye to our plates, Anne and her team, fellow students Ashley and Kevin, came out to take a bow. And we clapped, so delighted for our friend and all her hard work come to fruition. Don’t they look happy?
Then, a final delight for the day: Anne took us on a quick tour of the kitchens, where we got to see the full operation of the cooking school (dish washing room included). But perhaps the best part of all, was that every room we entered, the students working there stopped whatever they were doing to clap and cheer for one of their own, a student who had come to the end of her course and worked hard to share her vision, to cook her heart out.
That’s what I think about—all these passionate folks cooking their hearts out, working long hours doing something physical and challenging, burning arms and blistering fingers. There’s passion here in these kitchens, a drive to create something, to feed the hungers of people they don’t even know.
When I tell people my friend is in culinary school, they ask me if Anne wants to be a restaurant chef. We talked about this when she was just starting her course. She didn’t necessarily want to be a chef, she told me, she didn’t know where the path might take her. The end goal was not the point, the point was the opportunity to spend two years immersed in the world of food and cooking, immersed in what she loves.
So here’s something to think about—it’s what I’ve been thinking about since Anne’s luncheon. What would you want to spend two years immersed in—what are you so passionate about that two years of study would be its own reward? Professional cooking isn’t for everyone, but we all have something we’d be willing to work long and hard for. What is it for you?
What sort of homework would make you excited? Where does your passion lie?

















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