Five weeks ago I thought I’d dip my toe into a picturesque pond and now I’m in the belly of a whale. Just over a month ago, I sent an email to a new Facebook Friend introducing myself. I had seen his post that the Wine Country Culinary Institute in Walla Walla was looking for an adjunct professor for summer quarter. I have teaching experience. My summer work schedule was portable. Dad’s basement is always free, and his deck has an absolutely stunning view of the Blue Mountains. Why not? I would read, write, and do lots of creative recipe testing with the amazing local produce. Dad and I might go fly fishing on the rare weekend I didn’t make the 300 mile drive back home. You can see it, can’t you? The grassy bank and buttercups? The dragonflies and gently rippled waters? WHAMMO! Whale food.
I’ve taught a lot of cook
ing classes. I’ve run a small cooking school. The basic scenario goes like this: I talk. They laugh. We eat. It’s a lovely evening. At the college level, the day looks more like this: Rise with the sun in a panic. Claw desperately for authentic and applicable sources of information. Talk for a while. Talk a little louder, because these college students clearly haven’t noticed how brilliant and witty I am. Talk some more, because apparently the students came for information and career training, not entertainment. Run around like a crazy person trying to find ingredients so they can actually cook what we just talked about. Try to keep my whites white and my hair from flopping in my face while tasting 20 variations of the same recipe. Grab another cup of coffee at my desk while I scrape together the materials for the lecture class in …half an hour? Are you @%&* kidding me? Talk. Talk. Listen. Learn. Drag myself home. Say hi to Dad. Pet the dog. Head to the basement and work until the wee hours of the morning in the hopes that tomorrow I can stand in front of this group of driven, curious, talented culinary students without looking like an absolute imbecile. Fall asleep hungry in the bed I got when I was 12. Repeat.
Five weeks ago, I was an expert. I wrote a pretty great cookbook and was almost pretzel-shaped from patting myself on the back. I figured I was due for a few months in a pretty town, chatting about food while I framed out my next project. I forgot that talking isn’t teaching and cooking isn’t always fun. There will be no poetic blogs about elderberry jam, Riesling verjus, or sun-cured Indian pickles this summer. I will be far too busy getting schooled.