Narrative Essay Culinary

Time and time again, I sat in a hospital where my skin was pierced to extract this red fluid called blood. This red fluid was then taken to a lab for further tests, which usually made me frustrated since there was never any good news. For me, though it was much more than an emotion that had just appeared from the shadows of the abyss, but a revelation. Coming from a life of health conditions taught me to only see the negative aspect, but over time I began to see the positive aspect as well which brought me to this belief, being diagnosed is a two-way street.
Throughout my childhood, my mom picked up on clues I subliminally left her, without me even knowing. Whenever it was time to go shopping for food she would bring me along and sit me down …show more content…
I knew I wanted to revolve my life around the culinary field. I remember one day in culinary class a well-known chef came to speak about choosing career paths in the culinary field. This did not only spark my passion for cooking but many others students that were in my class as well. I got a chance to speak with him about my goals and explained to him my true purpose of why I wanted to be in this field he smiled. I felt as if that chef understood me, but I guess that just wasn’t the case. Right before the chef left my school, we all had an assignment which entailed us to prepare a homemade biscuit for him. I managed to make the biscuit for the chef to try and he was so pleased with my performance, that it brought attention to where I was sitting. All my other classmates circled around the chef and I like a centerpiece on a table. I was very satisfied that he liked my piece, but the only situation that occurred was that he wanted me to consume a piece of the biscuit to taste how good it was. Sweat began to run down my face like an ice sculpture. I abruptly told him I wasn’t hungry, but he then insisted. I did not want to tell him that I had a diagnosis that prevented me from consuming certain items. His genuine smile began to crack my lies of armor wrapped around me. My hands fell to the table and I exclaimed to the chef that was once stained with a smile from my biscuit that, having an intolerance to lactose and gluten chained me from trying a piece of the biscuit. As I lifted my head up the chef and I appeared to be in the hallway outside my class. The chef patted my back and told me to just listen. Shame was the mask that I wore in front of this man. I was prepared for this chef to tell me I couldn’t make it in this industry and I should look for another career. The man in the white that told me five words that branded my heart “Find identity in your problems.” Those