Feeding the Soul

This is for me, I thought. In this moment, this blissful Saturday moment, I’m aware of how unaware I am of my romantic and social dramas. I’m suddenly conscious that I’ve been made happy by something outside the realm of personal relationships.

Knives. Perfect Mercer knives, sharp straight from the factory, made sharper still by a carefully crafted whet stone. I slice through onions, chop even little cubes of carrot. I julienne, I emincer. I ignore the faint foreshadowing of a blister in my right index finger and push through. Boiling, peeling, seeding tomatoes. Lemon supremes. Peeled pearl onions. The smell of wilting onions hangs heavy in the air as our soon-to-be French onion soup lunch melts in the pot.

My hat is too tight. The fabric of my white chef’s coat and checkered pants is too stiff, unforgiving. I should’ve worn socks. I feel these things but I don’t care. I am learning and creating and loving every single second of being in this massive kitchen with a cutting board in front of me, a bowl of fresh vegetables and fruits to my left, and gleaming knives to my right.

“You seem uncomfortable at your board,” the chef tells me. “Try it like this.” I try it like that. “Good, that’s good. And these are good here.” I beam at my tiny cubed carrots, all uniform and ready to be tossed in a salad.

“Thank you, chef.” My sweaty hand slips and my next batch of carrots is a mess. Alright, I’m still learning.

I got home from class that day beaming. I had just spent five hours in front of a cutting board and now I had an aching blood blister on my index finger from gripping the knife against my fragile skin. But instead of covering it with a Band Aid, I admired it. In a week’s time, a month’s time, a year’s time I’ll have a callous there. It’ll be a lovely reminder of the day I began a journey that was entirely for me.