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The Letters

Pierre Moglen
Based on a true story
Dedicated to: My grandmother Professor Helene Moglen
and my grandfather Jean-Pierre Souquet

I sat on the train and closed my eyes, the weight of pots, pans, baking sheets, and entire
stoves all crushing my heart. My grandmother was now silent; I feared that she would no longer
be reading me an excerpt from her new book, or sitting with me at a table over dinner sharing
conversation, and she would certainly not be savoring the food at my future restaurant.
I had hailed a taxi from the far corner of Penn station. In my hands were three things: a
wrapped box and two letters. The 25-minute crosstown taxi trip flew by as I twirled my fingers
in excitement to see my precious grandmother. I knocked on her door. The classic New York
holiday season negative wind chill was still making my nose tingle.
My grandmother opened the door and hugged me, her smile contagious and her arms
wrapped around me ever so slightly, with her soft hands warming my neck, as they had every
holiday since the day I was born. We walked into her study, an air-mattress already setup on the
floor, my favorite covers and sheets tucked in with the same hospital corner that holds together
every bed in our family. The brightly lit sun reflected off the glass bookcase filled with books
that had one name on the bindings, Elizabeth Burton. The National Book Award seal gleamed in
the light.
I put down my bag and made my way to the living room, one hand wrapped in my
grandmother's, the other holding the box, the letters peeking out from my back pocket. Just like
every year, the otherwise unused fireplace was filled with presents, half of them surely new
books from my grandmother's carefully comprised best books list, and one extra, her newest
award-winning novel, poem, or essay. She sat down in her aging rocking chair and I laid the box
on her lap. As she unwrapped her gift, I rested the letters down on the beautiful glass coffee table
my father and I bought for her 70 birthday, five years ago. She opened the box and uncovered
th

the Creuset roasting pot, wrapped in a crisp apron. Her eyes glanced back as she spotted the

letters, the Columbia University letterhead prompting the most delightful smile, clearly ignoring
the International Culinary Center logo.
"Congratulations!" she shouted as she reached for an unopened bottle of Prosecco.
"Thank you, grandma, that's actually what I wanted to talk to you about." My grandmother put
the bottle down; her eyes now looked back at the other letter, focusing on the words Culinary
School.
"Are you getting hungry? That trip this afternoon must have made you hungry?" She got
up and made her way to the kitchen, not even letting me respond. There was something wrong,
which meant I was going to have to prove myself.
"Let me make dinner!" I exclaimed
"Why dear? I can just fix something up."
"Why don't we make something together?" I offered.
"All right, let's see what's in the fridge," she said cheering up.
I walked through the kitchen opening the neatly labeled cabinets. I pulled out the paella
pan and set it down on the range. She caught on and pulled out the shrimp and clam. I pulled out
the chorizo and then the small vial of Spanish saffron
.My grandmother's eyes lit up and she smiled again. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her
watching me as I prepared what I thought of as our last meal. We moved to the dining room, the
two heads of table set, the bottle of Prosecco in the middle and right next to it, the Columbia
University acceptance letter. We sat down and she put her glass up.
"Bon apptit mon grand."

"Bon apptit a vous aussi," I toasted back. She took her first bite and so did I, a clam
perfectly melted in my mouth and directly after, a slight crunch of the rice, right as the slightest
hint of saffron and white wine slid onto my palate. My grandmother spoke the first word.
"I want to tell you how proud I am of your acceptance and all the hard work you have
done to get where you are. Now, what did you want to talk about?"
"Well, I need your guidance, because my decision is proving to not be so easy. I paused
and ate another fork-full. As you know, for the last six years I have grown more and more
interested in cooking and I have strongly been considering making this passion my craft, my
way of life.
My grandma put down her fork and folded her napkin up on the table. She got up and walked to
her study. I bent over my chair like a toddler, trying to see what she was doing. Next to a frame
filled with Provencal lavender was a small frame. On her way back to the table, she held the
frame cautiously with both hands. For a second I caught sight of the man who is, Ive been told,
my great-grandfather, but no one ever talks about him.
"My father, Henry, immigrated to this country during World War II, she began. He was
a French Jew who had to escape the Vichy government. When he came here to New York, my
mother already had my brother and within the first year here, my mother was pregnant with me.
My father could only find one job, as a minor in New Jersey over an hour away." She put the
picture down and looked directly at me with a captivating stare, clearly holding back a tear. She
handed me the frame.
"He worked 18 hour days every day including holidays. His hands were destroyed so
badly he could not hold his own baby!" She looked back at me and I could tell she was now
talking about my own future. "He worked with his hands and wasted his life, but he would not

waste mine. I worked in the local library so that I could go to private school. I paid my way to
Columbia. As she continued about her father she switched to French. "Toi mon p'tit, toi tu ne vas
pas tre comme mon pre."
Silence overtook the room.
"How about you get some sleep and we can talk more about your decision tomorrow."
I got up to clear the table; she squeezed my hand as I reached for her plate. I don't want you to
waste your life working with your hands, not knowing what your kids cheeks feel like because
your hands have been burnt off. Youre too smart to cook peoples dinner for a living."
I cleared the plates and came to the kitchen. She reached up and kissed my forehead. I went to
the study and slid under the covers, trying not to mess up the hospital corner. The TV switched
off in my grandmother's room and I turned my head to look at the clock. 1 AM flashed in red.
Right next to the clock two eyes stared at me. They were my great-grandfather encircled by the
silver frame.
I fumbled for my phone and read the event reminder: college decision day!! I swiped up
to stop the alarm and the home screen reappeared. I smiled at the picture on the screen of my
grandmother and me sitting in the New York botanical garden. The sun had not yet blessed the
New York skyline, so it was just me and the beeping garbage truck disobeying the sacred no
honking rule. I made my way to the kitchen and took out two cast-iron skillets. Two pats of
butter in the big pan and a dash of olive oil in the other. One egg sunny-side up, well-seasoned,
with no "white goo," just the way my grandmother likes. In the first pan, onions caramelized, as
well as tomato for some color. In the other pan, I emptied a bowl with two eggs, one tbsp. of
milk, chives, and a pinch of Herbes de Provence all whisked up. Right at six, the hairdryer turned
on. Four minutes till plating and service. 6:04 and the table was ready.

"Good morning, grandma."


"Hi honey, howd you sleep?"
"Great " my eyes looked down at the pan. Never lie and look someone in the eyes.
"Breakfast is ready."
"Look at that perfect yolk!" she said, this a sign of rejuvenation after the night before.
We sat down and I waited for her to eat a little before I started to talk. As you know, I love you
dearly and you have made me who I am. You've taught me that passion is one's guide, which is
why I think I'm going to culinary school. Right here in New York, only a 20-minute metro ride
away.
My grandmother downed her orange juice and pushed her plate to the center of the table.
Without even acknowledging me, she got up. The creek of the wood floor marked her advance to
her bedroom. The bedroom door closed. I got up and loaded the dishwasher, gathered my stuff,
and walked to the front door. As I made my way through the living room, I grabbed one of the
envelopes, leaving the blue letterhead on the glass coffee table.
Outside, New York had come to life. I walked to the metro station and bought a one-way fare. I
got out of the subway and hurried to the corner of Broadway & Grand St. The three orange
letters on my envelope turned into flags and window decals. It was beautiful! I walked in and
made my way to the admissions offices. The Director of Admissions caught me in the hallway
and invited me into her office. I slid the letter across her desk and she slid a stack of papers back
to me with Xs marked by sticky note flags on most of the sheets.
"We are so excited to welcome you to our passionate team of world-class students and
chefs," she exclaimed.

Passion, that was the word. That's why I was here. After signing my name many times written,
the Director asked me to verify all my emergency contact information. Mother, father, and
emergency contact. My mind froze Did I have a family in New York anymore?

"Mr. Dubois, is everything OK? Is all the information correct?" She tapped her desk.
"Sorry, um, uh, Id actually like to change my emergency contact to a cousin who also
lives here in the city."
"OK, no problem. May I ask how you know Ms. Burton, your former emergency contact?
I've always admired her novels."
"She was my grandmother."
"Oh dear did the great Burton pass away?"
"No, not exactly-" I paused, "she just wont be my contact and longer. Unfortunately she
disapproves of my passion, my calling."
"Well maybe we can change her mind," the Director said, her shoulders raised with
excitement as she started typing away on her computer.
My smile quickly disappeared. "May I take another look around? I asked.
"Of course, feel free to ask me or any of the chefs any questions you may have, and
welcome to our family."

I walked out of her office and climbed the stairs. A row of frames came into sight: Bobby
Flay, Dan Barber, and Christina Tosi... Pictures of the great alumni as children and now as
restaurateurs. A quote under Bobby Flay's childhood picture resonated through my brain:

"Follow your dreams, no matter the expense. This was all I thought about as I made my way out
of the school and walked back to Penn station.
I went to the booth and asked for the next train to DC.
"Were sold out until 9 PM," grumbled the disgruntled clerk behind the glass.

I paid for the ticket and sat down in the waiting area. Before I knew it the loudspeaker
broke my slumber, "Last call for the 9 PM DC regional, now on track 14."
I ran to the train and found my seat. An overwhelming question regained control of my thoughts:
Was my grandmother a reasonable price to pay for my dream?
I closed my eyes, the weight of pots, pans, baking sheets, and entire stoves all crushing my heart.
I arrived in DC at 12:30 and grabbed a cab. Once at home, I walked directly to bed. Multiple
daytime naps proved inadequate.
"Jean-y, Jean-y my three-year-old sister yelled, she didn't speak French yet and therefore
couldnt properly pronounce my French name. "There's a man for you at the door."
I threw on a shirt and ran to the door.

"Mr. John Phillipe?" He adopted my sisters pronunciation of my name. "I need you to
sign for this one-day delivery... Have a nice day." He ran back to his truck.

I opened the package without looking at the return address. There was an envelope on top
of the paper protecting the box's contents. I pulled out a picture old enough to have the date in
yellow at the bottom of the print. The picture was of my grandmother holding me as a small child
wearing a chefs hat. On the back I recognized a familiar quote I had seen at the ICC follow

your passion at any expense" signed the great Ms. Burton with a heart. The admissions director
had been successful.

"What's in the box?" my sister grabbed the wrapping paper.


A black knife kit with a logo and my initials stitched on the front.
ICC JP.

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