Author: Karena Chazin

Some people fall in love with cooking slowly—by osmosis, through family recipes, or by gradually finding their way into the kitchen. I cannonballed in at ten years old, with my very first dinner party. My vision was ambitious: a three-course meal, made entirely from scratch, the kind of thing that might earn an Alton Brown eyebrow raise. What I didn’t have was a realistic sense of timing. Hours of chopping, sautéing, and “just one more” garnish later, I was still plating the appetizers at nine o’clock at night. My family was hungry, I was exhausted, and the kitchen looked like a war zone. But I was hooked.

Cooking was magic—this creative, chaotic alchemy where you could turn raw ingredients into something people would gather around and talk about. That night planted a seed.

In middle school and high school, though, my focus shifted. Sports took center stage. I played everything I could get my hands on, but it was CrossFit that stuck. The community, the competition, the constant challenge of bettering yourself—it was addictive. But somewhere along the way, food started to feel less like magic and more like math. Calories, macros, “clean” eating, guilt over indulgence. Cooking was no longer about pleasure or creativity; it was about control.

It wasn’t until I discovered strongwoman competitions that I started to rebuild my relationship with food. Strongwoman gave me all my favorite parts of CrossFit—lifting heavy, pushing limits, training with grit—but it also demanded something more: fuel. Real fuel. The stronger I got, the more I needed to eat, and the more I appreciated food as a tool for performance. It was a subtle but profound shift: food wasn’t the enemy. It was part of the work.

Meanwhile, another love was quietly taking root: dining out in New York City. At first, it was just a treat after a hard week—a way to experience flavors I could never recreate at home. But it quickly became a pursuit in itself. I started seeking out tasting menus, hidden gems, and buzzy openings. I kept notes on every dish, every service detail, every feeling a restaurant evoked.

I became a regular at chef’s counters, often dining solo, savoring the theater of the kitchen as much as the food on my plate. Something about those dinners caught the attention of the chefs themselves. “Are you in the industry?” they’d ask, half-curious, half-certain. The answer was always no—until one day, I realized I didn’t want it to be.

That’s when I decided to stop circling the edge of the culinary world and step inside.

Right now, my life is a balancing act. By day, I work a full-time job in paid media, managing strategy and campaigns. By night, starting September 10th, I’ll be in culinary school, learning the fundamentals I’ve admired from the other side of the counter for years. On Saturdays, I stage at a French restaurant in Midtown—immersing myself in the pace, precision, and unspoken language of a professional kitchen.

I don’t know exactly where this path will lead. Maybe I’ll climb the ranks on the line, maybe I’ll merge my media background with my culinary skills, or maybe I’ll open a restaurant that feels like a dinner party—minus the 9 p.m. appetizers.

What I do know is that this is the most excited I’ve been since that first night in my childhood kitchen. The difference now is that I understand the work ahead, and I’m ready for it.

So here’s to sharp knives, late nights, and wherever this journey takes me.