To Cook or Not to Cook?

Let me say this about myself: Food is a rather large part of my life. As a child, I was especially good at quitting things: wrestling, ballet, marching band...well marching was fairly recent, but that is beside the point. The point is it’s hard for me to find something that I am actually capable of sticking to. So, when I found out that I love eating, (and later cooking) I decided that perhaps my long-term love of food was a message from God. In my opinion, my eagerness to always quit things was not because I was a quitter, but because those things were simply not meant for me! Since middle school, I began seriously thinking about pursuing a career in the food service industry and look at me now; a sophomore culinary student at Johnson & Wales University. Frickin’ Johnson & Wales University!! How exciting!!!!!!

But I digress. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that food may not love me back.

Isn’t it the worst to have a one-sided love? I think that if food and I loved each other equally, whenever I cook, it would be like Beethoven creating a musical masterpiece and that just isn’t the case for me. Sometimes after I cook, I just stare at the disaster I made and wallow in self-pity for a few minutes as my ego points almost visually plummet. I sometimes wonder if I have become one of those people that put words into God's mouth just to have things go their own way. I’m sure it doesn’t help that when I cook, it’s a lot like how some people watch TV. My mind goes into some kind of half-coma while my body performs the functions that I think I want to do. Like I said before, sometimes it’s good and sometimes, it’s really bad. Maybe I have ADD? Seriously, I just want to go one week where when I think of something and make it, I’m proud of what I did because it actually turns out the way I thought. Maybe I have culinary dyslexia? Success in the kitchen is very sporadic for me and much like the guy I love who just doesn’t seem to feel the same way about me, I always seem to be the party that gets hurt. My meal can turn out well, but you better believe I’ve burnt myself or cut some appendage; or, the meal looks like it’s coming along, but then it is ruined. Is it really worth it in the end? Is this a case where the answer to my grief is abandon ship, or practice makes perfect? I sure hope it’s the latter; otherwise I’m going to need for God to send me another memo about my life’s purpose.