“We are all on the search for flavors. I’ve come to understand that this is an unending quest. I don’t know what done looks like and I don’t know what done tastes like.”
The book: Yes, Chef: A Memoir by Marcus Samuellson
I love reading memoirs. I love understanding someone’s reflection of his/her own life, because hindsight in 20/20. We should all reflect, periodically, is what I’ve been told.
When you reflect back, a few days later, or many years from now, it all comes together, and the seemingly insignificant events or happenings achieve a state of grand significance. You realize everything you have done has led you up to where you are now. And you realize in order to appreciate the present, you have to reach back a little further into the past.
I’ll have to revisit these themes in a later post.
But for this one, for Chef Marcus Samuellson’s post, I’d like to dedicate it to my friend, Cristal, the pastry chef.
Cristal, my friend since the 6th grade. Ten, eleven, we were? when we both “dated” another pair of best friends in the 6th grade. My relationship only lasted a month, of which I ended with a note. I haven’t matured much since then.
Twelve, we were, when we’d spend the hours in between speech-debate tournaments sitting, laughing, wearing the long sleeve speech shirts we thought were so cool then.
Thirteen, we were, when during a rehearsal of The Three Musketeers, she confessed that she was going to South Garland High School, instead of Garland High School, and we both cried.
Fourteen, we were, when we both went to First Baptist Church together with all of our friends, youth summer camps included. Was that when we decided you were Jasmine, and I was Mulan?
FIfteen, we were, when we would sit, and cry for hours about our parents, because our lives unfolded in a parallel manner at the same time.
Sixteen, we were, when we finally learned to drive, we’d make the 40 minute drive between Garland & Rowlett to see each other, at least once a semester.
Seventeen, we were, when we finally made our college decisions, and again, realized we’d be in different cities.
We haven’t lived in the same city, state, country since our teenage years. We see each other once, or twice a year, if we’re lucky. And even then, we have to make concerted effort, because making time for those you love can be hard.
Since then, though, I’ve followed her trajectory, her journey, her (quite literal) search for flavors. She’s someone who is living out the life she stated she wanted, something very few of us can say. So, every night, she’s baking delectables under Disneyworld’s magical display of fireworks.
Who knows where her quest will lead her next. A three-Michelin star elite restaurant in New York City? Learning from the best of the best in France?
Fifty years from now, from wherever we both are, we’ll make the effort to meet each other in the middle and laugh together, in between the chips & guacamole, about where we’ve been and how we got here.
End, Memory Fourteen.
*Note: Neither Cristal nor I look like that.
Next Week: The Orphan by David Rabe