Spicy Food Cravings | Culinary School Stress

Spicy food cravings became my therapy during culinary school stress in Paris—because sometimes, we need vulnerability more than advice.

Spicy Food Cravings | Culinary School Stress

Spicy food cravings became my therapy during culinary school stress in Paris.

Spicy bibimmyeon, extra-spicy homemade sriracha on banh mi trung (Vietnamese egg sandwiches), fiery fried rice… and then another squirt of sriracha on top

I’ve been craving spicy food a lot lately.

Maybe it’s because my stress levels have been a bit higher than usual.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to the structure of school life after living life entirely at my own pace for the past 15 years.

We had a three-day weekend this week, and I spent two of those days just sleeping. 🛌💤

I’m a textbook introvert. Being around people—close or strangers—completely drains me, and the only way I know to recharge is through sleep and rest alone.

I went to school four days this week. Going to school means being around a lot of people. Even if it’s just small talk, I end up having several quick conversations throughout the day.

Even when stranger smiles at me, it makes me happy. So I try to do the same to others. But I didn’t realize how much that would drain me.

I do enjoy chatting with my classmates, but when I get home and collapse from exhaustion, it’s not because my body is tired—it’s because all my energy’s been zapped.
Sometimes I feel a little bitter about this cursed part of my personality.

On demo days, I try my best to take notes—even on things I already know—and focus on memorizing the recipes exactly as they’re taught. After all, I came here to learn classic French cuisine.
Until now, I’ve always been the one sharing how I cook with others. But now the roles are reversed.
As someone who’s mostly self-taught, I’m not used to learning from others, and I’m not quite sure how to be a “good student.”

Maybe it’s because most of the time, the demo chef and the practical chef are different people, and their standards or approaches to the same recipe often vary—understandably confusing for us students.

That’s probably why I get especially tense during practicals.
I mean, I’m Seonkyoung Longest?! Mistakes can’t be allowed.
(Even though most of the chefs and classmates don’t actually know who I am… 😅)

In the beginning, some chefs and classmates asked if I had any restaurant experience. I told them no.
Technically, I worked for about four months at a casino restaurant in Las Vegas—thirteen years ago. And It’s Cherry only ran for three months, and it was a food truck. 

So to be honest, I think it’s fair to say that I consider myself someone with no proper restaurant background. Plus, it’s such a long and complicated story. I don’t feel like explaining it all… It’s too complicated.
That’s the kind of story I’d share over a glass of wine with classmates someday—not something I can explain in the middle of a hectic practical class. So I just said I work in my own kitchen every day. Which is true—I really have been working hard in my kitchen every single day. Lol!
A home kitchen and a commercial restaurant kitchen are two very different worlds.

So far, I haven’t made any major mistakes during practicals—but that’s probably because I’ve been able to catch and fix little mishaps quickly, thanks to over a decade of cooking experience at home, in my kitchen.
But still… the scores though.
That damn score is the real problem.

My ego—oh, that arrogant little b!+(h—demands a perfect 5 out of 5 every single time, and it nags me through the whole class.
Ironically, the times I felt I gave it my all and did really well, I didn’t get the score I hoped for. And the days when I felt kind of off and things didn’t go so smoothly, I got a surprisingly high score.

I try not to let the scores stress me out. But my ego just won’t let it go.

The ones at school who know “Seonkyoung Longest” tend to say things like:
“It must be easy for you.”
“I don’t know if there’s anything new for you to learn—you probably already know it all.”

But the truth is, I have zero background in traditional French cuisine.
Sure, I’ve eaten a lot of it—but actually cooking it? Barely.
I’m familiar with the taste of most of the classic sauces we’re learning, but aside from béchamel, vinaigrette, and maybe mayonnaise, I’ve never actually made them myself. Even the knife cuts—I have to learn all the terms in French now.

So really, I’m not all that different from my classmates.
Well… maybe I do have one advantage: my natural cooking instincts. 😂 Lol! Just kidding!!

I came here to begin something new—even though I don’t quite know what that is yet. This time in Paris, this time at school, is meant to be a pause, a step toward that new beginning. I don’t want to force myself to live up to some kind of “Seonkyoung Longest” expectation. But I’m only human, and it’s hard not to think about it. Wouldn’t you feel the same?

Imagine this: you’ve spent over a decade building a name for yourself, working from the ground up, and earned a solid reputation in your field—only to have it all suddenly attacked by strangers. Now you’re at school, hoping for a fresh start, but some of the people around you know exactly who you are—because they dream of being in the same field you once built your life around. Wouldn’t that make you feel a little self-conscious?

If you wouldn’t, then good for you. I truly wish I were like that too.

When I wrote the last From My Table piece, I shared my first day and week at culinary school with as much honesty and vulnerability as I could. I knew some parts might sound a little foolish—but to me, being honest and vulnerable mattered more.

So when someone responded with, “As difficult as I know it is, get out of your own head and live in the moment. Don’t let others’ perceptions of you define you,” I was honestly a bit taken aback.

We all live with our own anxieties and vulnerabilities, and most of us do our best to hide them. Just as I can’t fully understand your life, I know it’s hard for you to fully understand mine.

I tried to open up with honesty and vulnerability about my own struggles—but when someone says something like, “Just get out of your head and live in the moment,” it can feel as if they’re actually saying, “Don’t be so sensitive. Just toughen up.”

Of course, I don’t believe he/she meant any harm. I’m sure it was his/her way of saying “Stay strong” or offering encouragement. But when support comes without first acknowledging or truly holding space for someone’s pain, it can feel dismissive—and that’s what made me feel uncomfortable.

As some of you may have already noticed, I’m a deeply sensitive person. I don’t respond well to hurtful comments, of course—but unsolicited advice can also feel invasive. I hope it’s understood that I don’t write these pieces to receive suggestions or solutions.

From My Table is a journey back to myself.

A space where I can unfold the emotions I can’t always put into words.
A quiet pause amid constant movement, where I can reflect inward.
A place to share the flavors of life—its sorrows and comforts, its growth and grace—through food.
Not content designed to impress, but stories that are genuinely mine.
And maybe, for someone out there feeling alone, these words can offer the simple comfort of, “It’s not just me.”

From My Table is a journey for myself—but I hope it reaches someone else’s heart, too.
That in this space, healing can begin—for me, and for you.

To be honest, today’s post started off with a simple idea: I’ve been stressed from adjusting to new school life lately, so I’m having spicy food cravings—homemade sriracha!—as a way to cope.

As I began writing and let myself open up again—allowing the more vulnerable parts of me to spill out—that comment echoed in my mind.
It made me pause. Just for a second, I wondered…
Am I whining? Am I being too much?

Because the truth is, even words spoken without much thought can leave a deeper mark than we realize. I hope we can all remember that.
And that reminded me: I, too, have a responsibility. When I write something that reaches so many people, I need to stay mindful of how I carry that voice.

This post didn’t go as I planned. Just like many of my other From My Table posts, it ended up flowing in a different direction. Life doesn’t always go as planned, and neither does writing… I’m learning to be okay with that.

There’s something beautiful about letting things unfold naturally. And maybe, in that quiet surrender, some kind of magic begins. ✨

Thank you so much for reading. If you missed the previous From My Table post, you can find it here. I’d love to have you back for the next story. ✨