Cooking Up Hard Lessons
In early 2004, I returned to Oregon seeking a fresh start after two dark years shaped by hopelessness and bad choices. Alongside Ed, a sociopath to the core, I’d been pulled into a life of crime.
In Los Angeles, things came to a head when we got involved with criminals far more dangerous than us. At the same time, Ed and I had built a mildly successful business making business card CDs—mini CD-ROMs with auto-running flash presentations. But as the danger escalated, it was clear we had to get out. I suggested Maine for its lower cost of living and because I had contacts there from a previous stint.
In Maine, while trying to reintegrate into normal life, I watched Ed start manipulating people I cared about—friends who had once meant a lot to me. That was the breaking point. Seeing him hurt people I respected snapped me out of my fog. I realized I couldn’t keep living like this. I warned everyone I knew about him and took the first Greyhound bus back to Oregon.
Back in Oregon, I reunited with my brother and our friend Mike. All three of us—and Ed—had once been tangled in crime. It was my brother who’d introduced me to Ed in the first place. By now, he and Mike had cut ties a year earlier, choosing a different path—one I was finally ready to follow. I had no money, no recent work history, and dim prospects—but for the first time in a while, I felt hopeful.
Soon after, my father passed away. He was a respected geologist and part-time paleontologist, and his loss hit me hard. My mother and I flew to Pennsylvania for the funeral. That night, as the air cooled and we sat around a fire in his backyard, half-drunk, I confessed to my mom how lost I felt. She suggested culinary school, reminding me how much I’d always loved cooking—ever since I’d served a burnt, half-raw chicken to my family at age six.
She mentioned a school she’d seen in TV ads. I hadn’t watched TV in years and didn’t realize how manipulative those commercials could be. To me, her idea sounded reasonable. Grieving, desperate to go straight, and trusting her guidance, I didn’t question it. If I’d seen the ads myself, I might have been more cautious.
The day we landed back in Oregon, I started researching the school and booked a meeting with a recruiter. Still shaken from the funeral and clueless about the industry, I walked into the recruiter’s office completely unprepared.
He asked what I wanted out of life, and I, still emotionally raw, told him about the funeral. He pounced. Words like "proud," "successful," and "accomplished" filled the air as he showed me around the impressive facilities. He pointed out the suitcase full of tools—without mentioning that it was rolled into the massive tuition bill. He promised job placement, a fast-track career, and quick debt recovery. He knew exactly how to sell to someone desperate for a way forward.
Culinary school was a mix of real learning and questionable practices. I was genuinely excited in the beginning. The cooking classes were engaging, and even the basic writing course—required by federal loan rules—turned out to be enjoyable. The instructors were passionate, and the camaraderie among students made it feel like a fresh start.
But the program was rushed. Topics that deserved months got mere weeks. Our baking class lasted only a few weeks—barely enough to scratch the surface of a craft that takes years to master. This pattern repeated across the curriculum: wide coverage, shallow depth.
The school had other tricks too. If I got anything below a B, they pushed me to retake the class—more tuition, more loans. Following their advice, I graduated with a 3.92 GPA after a year and a half.
My internship was six unpaid weeks of grunt work at a well-known restaurant. Afterward, they placed me in one job: a short gig shucking oysters at a party—for the school’s instructors. There I was, a supposed honors graduate, standing at an oyster bar for four hours, serving drunk teachers for $8 an hour.
The school’s career office consisted of one elderly woman. No meaningful job leads ever came from it. So I started searching on my own. It didn’t take long to realize my degree carried no weight in the industry. Once I removed the school from my resume, I finally started getting calls—but had to begin at the very bottom. It took years of grinding to work my way up to management, with no help from the school.
About a year later, the school was hit with a class-action lawsuit. It included the year after I attended, but the judge excluded my cohort, meaning I couldn’t join the suit or sue on my own. Years later, the case was settled, and everyone who came after me got their loans wiped out and refunded.
Twenty years later, I still owe over $30,000. My wages have been garnished for years—a lasting reminder of how easily desperate people can be exploited.
So if you’re thinking about culinary school, learn from me. Be careful where you enroll. Many schools use flashy promises to hide mountains of debt and weak career support.
Before committing, work in the industry. Take jobs as a prep cook, dishwasher, or line cook. See the reality. You’ll learn on the job, and maybe even find a mentor.
If you do want formal education, check out community college programs. They’re affordable and often respected. Or if you’re aiming high, consider the Culinary Institute of America. It’s expensive, but it’s independent, not-for-profit, and actually respected in the industry.
Bottom line: choose a path that offers real value. Don’t fall for glossy promises. Learn by doing. Spend wisely.
P.S. I’ll share more about my past life of crime in a future story. Stay tuned.