Personal Statement
I have a foodagraphic memory.
Nearly all of my most vivid memories are connected by a central theme and setting: food and a kitchen. I remember specific holidays by the types of fragrant spices that radiated from the stove and birthdays by the flavor of cake that we gathered around to sing.
My earliest memory that I can recount, dating back to my fourth birthday in 2005, took place in a kitchen filled with opened flour bags and an assortment of bowls and cake pans. As I sat at the counter with my legs dangling, my eyes fixated on my mother who stood mixing ingredients with an electric mixer. There was something intriguing about seeing her progress from mixing the batter to filling the pans and eventually producing a final product which we could all enjoy: a princess castle cake adorned in sprinkles and waffle cone towers. Unbeknownst to me, this marked the beginning of my fascination with preparing and experiencing foods, as I soon found the powerful capabilities that a kitchen holds.
Growing older, I found myself drawn to the kitchen, collecting more memories in the recipe book of my mind. However, my interests quickly shifted from merely wanting to be in the kitchen to wishing to take the whisk in my own hand. For my tenth birthday, I asked for only cooking-related gifts which resulted in a pile of cookbooks, aprons, and measuring cups. These tools, I decided, would signify the launch of my cooking career, drawing me into the kitchen for my first taste of personal exploration.
After dabbling with kitchen utensils for some time, my first major culinary venture arrived on May 11, 2014 when I committed myself to serving a brunch to my extended family. After an abrupt seven A.M. alarm-induced awakening, I began my morning of preparing four distinct dishes: a dill and smoked salmon frittata, buttermilk biscuits, mixed greens with berries and candied pecans, and glazed lemon-blueberry bread. With flour covering my monogrammed apron, I paced between the stove, cutting board, and oven rapidly, feeling the heat of the oven and pressure of the timer running low. One moment, I was hovering over a pile of fresh dill, selecting one stem at a time and carefully removing the leafy sections to chop later. The next, I was holding a lemon in my palm, grazing its skin over the zester and watching the small fragments fall below the blade. Several hours of chopping, caramelizing, sauteing, zesting, and kneading later, I had completed the dishes with minimal time to set the outdoor table with silverware, glasses, and small mason jar floral arrangements.
The following minutes felt like a one-woman relay race; the distance between the kitchen and the patio was my track, while I handed off hot plates like batons. In this frenzy, my parents, siblings, and grandparents crowded around the table, chatting as they waited for my call to sit down. As they began to fill their plates, my thoughts were drowned by the sounds of silverware clanking
against the plates and glasses hitting the wooden table. My eyes intensely scanned each of the plates surrounding me. Was there too much dill in the frittata? Why was my sister picking the pecans out of the salad? In between bites, my family exchanged memories of childhood stories and vacations. As the chatter of my family began to ring more clearly in my ears, it dawned on me: I had not taken a single bite of food. With an exhale, I picked up my fork, my focus shifting from plates to faces. The comforting chatter and laughter of my family grew louder in my ears as I took my first bites of frittata. Surrounded by my family and the warmth of the sun, I leaned into the table, joining the conversation that would soon become another snapshot in the recipe book of my mind.