a new kind of everyday

monday morning, up early like always. i’m driving to school drinking a red bull, holding the cool can against the hickey on my neck. i’m singing along to the stereo turned up loud, driving on the highway with the windows down. in class, they tease me and i tease right back. we peel potatoes and carrots, practice tourners and batonets and juliennes, small and medium dices. we make tomato concasse, and chiffonade bunches of parsley. it’s stainless steel and bright colors everywhere, and the air smells fresh in this new, exciting way. we’re all smiling, knife blades flashing, hearts dreaming our individual dreams. she says she wants to open a bakery. he says he wants to own his own restaurant. i see that shine in their eyes, and want this for them almost as badly as they want it for themselves. they ask me what i want, and i smile, shrug, and say i’ll know it when i see it.

tuesday morning. by the time you wake up and consider getting out of bed, i’ve showered, gotten dressed, driven for half an hour, and am now playing with some very sharp knives– i get jealous over people who get to sleep in until seven, but the truth is, i’m getting used to this routine. caffeine in my veins, and i’ve given up trying to hide the hickey with my scarf. in the locker room, there’s the usual gossip- who’s doing their fair share, and more notably, who’s not. today, we’re making stock, and it’s the first time we actually get to cook something. i show her the nick on my finger from tourne-ing yams the night before, and she proudly displays the burn from the boiling water in yesterday’s class. our hands will be worn and scarred by the time this is over. i always had pretty hands. i’m ready for a change.

in the kitchen, we’re play-fighting over who gets the biggest, meatiest chunks of veal bones, we’re yanking chicken pieces from the sink and getting our stations ready. the ovens are high, and it’s easy to imagine how, in summer, we’ll know exactly what hell feels like. we chop mirepoix while the veal bones are browning. the air is hot blood and fat, clean onion and carrot and celery. we smash garlic and peppercorns for our sachets, chopping parsley stems and picking through the bay leaves to find the best ones. use dried thyme instead of crushed. the sachet, this little cheesecloth bundle of seasoning tied up with twine, is the best thing i’ve smelled in weeks. that is, until we’ve got the stocks in the pots, brown veal bones and carmelized mirepoix and browned tomato paste, chicken pieces and raw mirepoix, and both with those perfect sachets- walking back into the kitchen from grabbing a quick cup of coffee, and the scent almost knocks me over. i swear to god, i will never use stock from a can again. we tend the pots, skimming, careful to keep the impurities from being stirred back into the liquid. at the end, we strain the chicken stock through a chinois and layers of cheesecloth, cool it in an ice bath and finally, store it in our class fridge. the brown stock needs to simmer overnight. walking back to the locker room, there’s this delicious sense of accomplishment. i tell myself, i’ll never get tired of this feeling. and i really don’t think i could.

wednesday morning, and god, i’m running late, but i make it to the kitchen on time. we’re in a rush, finishing up the brown stock, because we’re going over to a food salon slash culinary and hospitality convention in an hour or so. we skim and strain and cool the brown stock, clean the kitchen, at by ten, we’re ready to go. she’s the worst to follow on the highway, and i almost get lost. later, he says he was following me, and god do i have a lead foot. we walk into the casino, and there’s something that feels so good about wearing checks and whites in public. people look at me like i might be someone important. i think, maybe someday.

the convention center is incredible, a huge room filled with booths. walking around, our bags quickly fill with brochures, free gifts, business cards. call anytime, they say. they want our loyalty now, because they want our business someday soon. the culinary competition displays are amazing, and i remember, more than ever, that this is more than just cooking- it’s art. and then there’s free food everywhere, samples of eight kinds of cheesecake, ten kinds of gelato, chocolate fountains to dip mints or strawberries or pretzels in, tacos, veggie pizza with fresh herbs, philly cheesesteaks, foccacia, cookies, fresh sushi and sashimi, fruit smoothies, pies with perfect flaky crust, iced coffee, quiche, about fifty different salad dressings and pestos, brie with raspberries . . . halfway through, we’re both sitting back in huge massage chairs, free bacardi slushies in our hands, and she looks at me- this is the best, she says. i nod my head. she’s right.

driving home, i can’t stop thinking about how right this feels. and yeah, that hickey on my neck still hasn’t gone away.