It was 11 p.m. when I opened a can of tinned fish in my dorm kitchen, tossing around an array of miscellaneous leftover produce. After a few minutes of mixing and matching, a midnight snack was served. Young seasonal greens juxtaposing preserved seafood. This is art, I said. However, the version of me back home in a chef’s coat holding teeny tiny tweezers would have never imagined that a 15-minute no-cook dish could be called "art."
This goes back to how my food art journey began — music. I started playing violin when I was 6. In that same year, my family got a stereo set in the dining area. Every night, we enjoyed luxurious melodies alongside my mom’s red braised meat. Shockingly, my entrée somehow tasted different; the pork juices harmonized with the rich chords, igniting a sensory eruption in my mouth and ears.
From then on, music always accompanied dinner. I was continuously fascinated by new combinations of food and music that uplifted every moment of our gatherings. Somehow, the little me who could barely hold a violin or reach the stove aspired to design combinations of my own and share them with others.
During my second year of elementary school, I entrusted myself to make breakfast in bed for my mom on Mother's Day. There was, of course, music generated from my cat-scratching violin shredding, as well as lots of flowers and food curated by Chef Phoebe. Only a few inches taller than the kitchen counter, my round wobbly body wandered around the stovetop. I twisted the gas knob. Nice. I cracked two eggs and a piece of shell. Nice. But as I viciously scrambled the liquid inside the pan, I smelled smoke. I looked down and saw the ignited fluffy tail on my unicorn onesie. Ah, I must have leaned forward too much. I didn’t panic though. My intuition told me to collect water with a mug and pour it on the fire. I did exactly that and was left with a blackened, shatteringly crisp tail.
My unicorn’s injured tail couldn’t stop me. I made those eggs, presented in a pile in the center of a giant plate like a piece of art. I served breakfast while playing Canon in D on my violin. I felt relieved from all the chaos I just endured. Despite it tasting like smoky rubber, my mother admitted a few years later, she devoured every single bite. I was a proud artist.
My food-art dream continued sprouting as I went from a quarter-sized to a full-sized violin in middle school and from a Play-Doh knife to a chef’s knife. I scrutinized each phrase from Beethoven’s Spring Sonata — a piece I was currently working on — and reconstructed them into memorable flavors by reflecting musical elements into cooking. Delicate melodies that mimic chirping birds became a piquant yet refreshing fennel vinaigrette. When I served my dishes alongside my violin playing, I aimed to share the same sensory vibrancy that has inspired me from the very beginning. As I kept sharpening my palate, I fantasized about sharing my creations with different people I would eventually meet in college, telling them remarkable stories about food and art.
That dream was quickly shattered when I got my first glimpse of my college dorm kitchen. I walked into a space with a greasy counter beside a tiny electric stove above a dysfunctional oven with a communal fridge full of half-eaten pizzas and opened cartons of spoiled milk. People say college students don’t eat like normal human beings. I could see what they meant, assuming those bits and pieces of burgers were all compensations for the barely edible dining hall meals.
Still, I told myself that nothing would stop me. I went grocery shopping and splurged on my favorite brand of extra virgin olive oil. I was determined to continue making art using my favorite tools the next morning for breakfast: a cumin-sesame yogurt flatbread laid underneath decadent slices of lox and a beautifully poached egg, crowned with crunchy dukkha and a za'atar vinaigrette. I went to bed dreaming about breakfast.
The next morning, however, I couldn’t believe my eyes when more than three-quarters of my extra virgin olive oil disappeared. I was further panicked when I saw all of my knives and cutting boards coated in mystery goo. One of the boards was even randomly shoved at the back of the fridge. It took me a decent hour to clean everything. Breakfast ended up forgotten.
My surprise encounter didn’t bother me after that hour, though. It offered me insight into my new environment: charismatic, chaotic, and somewhat cramped, yet yearning for more exploration. Thus, I figured that it is time to re-evaluate my stance as an aspiring artist. It should not be about forcefully bringing in my old fancy-schmancy art tools, but adapting to my new stimuli. What appears to be limiting harbors endless possibilities. I started brainstorming: What can I possibly make in my dorm kitchen with my new budget and jam-packed schedule? Shelf-stable recipes, budget-friendly pantry, lazy meal prep turned crafty…my mind was racing with new ideas.
I started meal-prepping for the very first time. Frankly, I used to be quite against it, as I believed that everything needs to be made on the spot to be called “art.” However, my first meal-prepped rainbow bibimbap proved me wrong. Each nutritious and flavorful side dish was prepared at the beginning of the week. Then, after a busy day, I simply fried up a crispy egg and whipped up a sweet and spicy sauce. Assembling everything was quick, yet therapeutic. I didn’t bother to clean the edge of my plate or garnish it with microgreens like I used to. Yet, everything still looked pleasantly colorful.
After having a comforting bite, I realized I used to be so obsessed with defining my food art into a set of prescribed methodologies, so much so that I lost track of my true intentions. My ritual of food art was strictly modeled upon music, aesthetics, and finesse. Now, in my dorm kitchen, I am having more fun than ever with my new holistic vision of food art. Playing around with local ingredients from the opposite side of the planet, navigating with a different range of time and resources, and cooking in different contexts, around different people.