I have a suitcase full of food – literally. Grilled, roasted and braised meats wrapped in foil sit adjacent to my folded sweatpants. Fortunately, airports don’t have a 3-1-1 rule for proteins the way they do for liquids. While others eat peanuts and pretzels on fold out trays, I have at my disposal ancho rubbed pork chops, grilled salmon tranche with fennel and asparagus, roasted poussin with truffle butter, fork-tender lamb shank, braised chicken thighs, Moroccan monkfish, veal tenderloin with oyster mushroom cream sauce, and rack of lamb persillade. As we boarded the plane, someone behind me commented that it smelled like basil. Discretion was clearly a misplaced ideal. I imagined the person next to me salivating from the wafting air.
The weekend felt like it lasted no less than 7 days, prolonged in duration to the point of confusion. Surely tomorrow is Wednesday. The foods I carry mark the hours in the kitchen like hashed tally sticks keeping time, and will be to the delectation of those waiting patiently at home in my absence. The savory smells of blended herbs and crusted meats satiated me and for dinner, I wanted nothing more than a piece of bread. I was replete. My appetite swung opposite to the availability of food, as if to even the scales of excess.
After class, Chef called in the school’s staff to bring a plate, and the men we would occasionally bump into by the coffee maker joined us in the kitchen. They stock the linens and sort inventory for the classrooms, and were gratified by the platters before them.