the next two years of my life

monday morning, it felt like we were playing dress-up.

today, it felt right.

i wake up at five thirty and stumble into the shower. i pull on blue jeans, whatever i can find in the dark. in the living room, my bag is packed, knife kit beside it, and my jacket is smooth, clean, ready to go. coffee or coke or anything with caffeine, and at six thirty, i walk out the door.

at seven, i’m in the locker room. a few of us are there, actually, rubbing our eyes and making bets about death by exhaustion. i strip, and pull on my checks and a white shirt. black socks, black kitchen shoes, and i tie my neck scarf. over that, the jacket. in the mirror, i see the girl i’m just now understanding i am.

before class, we make strong, hot coffee and drink it quickly. we trade life stories, making friends over a recipe for tarte tatin. inside the kitchen, it’s all stainless steel and white tiled walls, and something in me says, yeah, this is heaven. our knives are out, thermometers and pens in our jacket pockets, and we’re ready.

this week was the introduction. this is work, and we know what we’re getting into. underneath glamour is foundation, i hear. standing in the locker room this afternoon, brushing my hair straight again, i’m quiet, listening to the conversations around me. when we walk out the front doors into the sun, i’m smiling. next monday, we learn our knife cuts, make our mise en place, brown and carmelize veal bones for stock. i can’t wait.

this suits me.