There’s some reason we all know what we know - we’re driven to it by chance, introduced by loved ones, drawn by monetary satisfaction. I know food. My sister’s boyfriend knows communications technology. My fiance knows movies. And it’s just as natural for me to know that edamame is a soybean as it is for my fiance to know that Roger Deakins is the Coen Brothers' choice DP. But that’s it. Sometimes there’s no end to that knowledge, no purpose.
This evening, I was invited to have a meal with my sister, her boyfriend, and his brother. I can’t help myself but talk about food when it’s around - which, depending on the audience, probably makes me a very trying dining companion. Still, the questions came up, as they always do: “So, did you go to culinary school, or something?” “Do you want to open your own restaurant, someday?” “Are you studying to become a nutritionist?”
The answer to all of these is a vague, sometimes resounding, “NO!”
Once, I did consider culinary school. I’d just graduated with a degree in film studies (history, theory, aesthetics -- watching as many movies as possible, then talking about them in critical ways), and was balking at my potential academic future. I’d wanted to do something more tangible, more hands-on - to look back at my day and say, “Hey, I made that!” I was working as a waitress in an Algerian creperie at the time, and so I had a first-hand understanding of transforming fresh, raw ingredients into delicious treats and healthy fare.
Then I realized - chefs spend very long days on their feet, in hot kitchens around dangerous implements. They’ve got to be loud, forceful, and strong personalities. Not only am I a bit on the delicate side, I’m extremely clumsy. I should not be allowed to use sharp instruments of doom, especially around other people. When factoring in the tens of thousands of dollars it’d cost to attend, culinary school was out.
Opening my own restaurant falls into a similar category. Sure, it would be nice to say, “Yeah, I run a restaurant,” as I take another swig of pinot grigio, sitting on an open-air deck while my erudite companions golf or engage in other airy, wealthy-person activities. But that’s never the reality, not for someone who doesn’t have millions of dollars, or volumes of passion. Again, the thing where I’m not really cut out for sixteen hour workdays, seven days a week, on my feet, under stress and fire. And I wouldn’t want to run a restaurant for someone else. Maybe if I won the lottery, though, I could open one, be the brains behind an operation, and let other people do the dirty work.
The last one is still in the works, but I’m know I’m not cut out for clinical work, either. I’d have to become a dietician, which is the only accredited title for a person who knows a ton about nutrition. Any other title and it just means “someone who makes conjectures about foo
d and health”. And it’d take about 5,000 hours of hands-on work, following practiced dietitians in their clinics and offices, working directly in healthcare. I definitely don’t want to be measuring the carbohydrate content of tube-feeds, or trying to convince stubborn diabetics that they should switch to sweet potatoes. It could be fulfilling, but I can’t imagine it would lead to many conversations relating to the sweetness of perfectly caramelized onions, or whether lime or lemon makes a better marinade for kale.
All this, though, and I can’t say I’m content with just knowing. I’m itching to be validated, have a degree, work in the field, do something important related to food. Maybe I’ll work for a nonprofit food resource center, or focus on becoming Secretary of the USDA. Some day.
As it is, I’m mired in a maintenance existence, working to pay rent and coming home tired. I try to cook every day, but still end up calling Jimmy John’s when I’m feeling lazy or pressed for time. I try to read every book I can get my hands on about food, but I’ve had Mark Kurlansky’s Salt: A World History bookmarked to page 36 for at least a month now. And so, why do I say I know about food, versus communications technology, or even film (which I’m technically qualified for)?
Simply because I do. At dinner, I answered questions about the truth behind 130-year-old sourdough starter, about the origins of edamame, the consistency of tempura. I’m not a culinary genius (far from it - as I write, my very first pie is baking in the oven) and I just work in someone else’s restaurant. And I’m taking my first class on general nutrition at the local community college. But I do know these things, and I retain them, and I covet them like some behold the latest iProduct or remastered cut of Metropolis. Phil's not a cinema historian, and my sister's boyfriend just works hard, selling cell phones.
We know things because we love them, because they relate to what we already know and value. We share them with others because it makes us feel, for just that moment, like an expert. And maybe once in a while, we’ll meet another enthusiast, someone who doesn’t always want to do - someone who just wants to know.
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