I first met my chef friend Charlie when he and I shared a hallway in the dorms. I was a sophomore at the time and he a freshman. We crossed paths while both of us were blasting punk records in our tiny single rooms; Charlie popped his head in my door and we realized we had a lot in common.
Before that, I always noticed the strange smells of food coming from his room into the hallway. Charlie had the strangest diet: some days he'd go to the farmer's market and make delicious homemade salsa (which he generously shared) and some days he'd eat raw spaghetti. We became close friends and eventually played in a band together, but he moved back home after Spring Quarter and decided to stay in Cleveland. There he found work at a café and restaurant, and started to hone his cooking skills.
In a positive turn of events, Charlie moved back to Athens earlier this month. He's back playing bass in our band, and he started work at a restaurant uptown baking breads and pastries. I tried his focaccia bread and blueberry muffins, and both were delicious.
Last week, Charlie came over to cook us up some food. It was past midnight, but everyone in the house was starving. Charlie raided our cupboards, pulling out forgotten produce and spices. We chopped up heaps of potatoes, onions, and peppers, fried them in a skillet, then threw them in a casserole dish with chopped mushrooms and herbs. We joked and caught up with old times while our dish baked, and when it was done, we ate half and saved the rest for lunches. Charlie still eats raw spaghetti, but I have a feeling he's going to be a great chef.
