This was not one of those cute moments when you decide to cook because it's fun. It wasn't a moment of perfection where Andy is around to remind you that the onion needs to be cut finer. It wasn't an auspicious occasion with guacamole appetizers and white wine to go along.
It was a test presented to me by the real world: if I am to survive in Tokyo this summer, I need to cook to save money. I'm starting my internship at SANAA tomorrow, and I've mostly only been concerned about my budget. This doesn't feel like those Princeton-funded trips where you could focus on the task at hand because you didn't need to worry about money. The only thing nice about being a starving artist is the romantic idea of the starving artist. And tonight, on the eve of my first day at work, this sauteed chicken and rice was my art. As I pressed my fingers against the raw chicken--something I've always dreaded--and sliced its slippery flesh into smaller pieces, I knew I was doing something I'd never done before, and that made me feel alive.