“I know,” I sigh. “It’s so unlike me.”
Ali tips her head back and laughs. “Now there’s the understatement of the century. I think I might be rubbing off on you.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. Ali’s easily the most impulsive person I’ve ever met. She once got matching tattoos with a stranger she met in a bar after losing a bet. Prior to this weekend, the craziest thing I’d ever done was ignore the dry-clean-only labels on my laundry.
She’s right, though: this is a very out-of-character move for me. Sure, I dated a few guys in college, but it took weeks before I was willing to have sex with any of them. But there is something aboutJake that’s different from other men. The prerequisites seem to matter less somehow. I can’t decide if it makes me excited, anxious, or a combination of the two.
“So, tell me everything. How was it?”
“It was—” Jake’s handsome face materializes before me. His square jaw twitches as he steps through the stairwell doors and heads toward me, closing the space between us. My stomach flip-flops at the memory. “It was everything.”
Ali’s still smiling as she leans back against the counter. “Dude, I’m so proud of you. You finally got to experience the joy of engaging in casual sex while still sleeping alone in your bed.”
“I wasn’t alone. Jake stayed for the weekend. I made him my blueberry pancakes.”
“I’m sorry… he spent the entireweekend?” Ali’s voice squeaks at the end. She crosses her arms and regards me closely. “Lexi, I know one-night stands aren’t your area of expertise, but trust me, that’s not how you do it. In fact, you might actually be married now.”
Desperate to change the subject, I pick up the plastic-wrapped dough we prepared earlier and pass it back and forth between my hands.
“We really need to get started on this apple tart,” I remind Ali. “Which would you rather do: Roll out the pastry dough or slice the apples?”
“I’ll take the dough.” She smirks. “You’ve already gotten a good pounding.”
Groaning, I grab a Jonagold apple from the basket at our station and start peeling it. We work quietly for a few minutes, and I’m just starting to think the conversation has ended when Ali reopens the subject. “So, are you going to see him again?”
“Um, I doubt it. He’s in LA for a few weeks for work. Honestly, this was probably just a one-off. Best-case scenario for everyone.”
Ali opens her mouth and then shuts it again, like she’s thoughtbetter of it. Narrowing her eyes, she shakes her head. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, I get back to mymise. Despite her excessive interest in my love life, for once, Ali doesn’t push. Besides, there’s little opportunity to discuss it further, because just then, Chef pokes his head into the kitchen to remind us that we only have an hour left. We frantically return to our tasks, and blessedly, I’m too busy to entertain any more thoughts about Jake Taylor for the rest of the morning.
The afternoon passes in a blur. By the time I leave the building and head to the train, every limb in my body aches with exhaustion.
After getting off at my stop, I lumber up the sidewalk, half-heartedly staring at the buildings as I pass. My heart sinks a bit as I pass a familiar pink nail salon at the corner of Fifty-Seventh and Lex. I haven’t been able to bring myself to go there since the last time I went with my mom.
I was fourteen years old the day I decided to become a professional chef. It happened by the dryers at Diva Darlings, my mom’s favorite nail salon. She’d recently started dragging me along to her Saturday-morning manicures—she insisted keeping my nails polished was the only way to stop me from biting them—and I was trying to keep myself occupied without smudging my nails before the polish had fully dried.
Bored, I’d grabbed an old copy ofPeoplemagazine from the rack by the coat stand and started gingerly thumbing through the worn pages. After flipping past photos of stars who were “just like us,” and bypassing a profile on Jennifer Aniston, who once again insisted she was absolutely fine as a single woman, I landed on a page at the very back of the magazine featuring a recipe for the “Best Ever Blueberry Pancakes.”
I read through the article once, and then twice more, drinking in every rich detail of the featured photograph. I studied the flowof the syrup as it dripped sensually down the sides of the golden stack, the way the juicy blueberries burst through the top and sides of the pancakes. Growing up in New York, I’d enjoyed plenty of killer brunches, but there was something thrilling about the idea of making my own version. My parents loved pancakes; how much fun would it be to serve them something I created?
When my mom announced her nails were finally dry and it was time to go home, I tore out the page as covertly as possible and stuffed it into my pocket. I kept my head down as we left the shop, making sure to avoid eye contact with the other patrons just in case one should have caught my thievery.
On the walk home, I begged Mom to stop off at the market so I could pick up all the ingredients I needed to make my pancakes. Though somewhat bemused by my sudden interest in cooking, she agreed to make the trip. I remember exactly the way I felt as we made our way through the aisles. It was the first time I felt that thrill, that magic that comes with choosing fresh ingredients for a new recipe.
Cooking became my passion, and when Mom got her diagnosis, it also became my escape. The more I learned and the harder I worked to hone my skills, the less powerless I felt. Mom was deteriorating before my eyes. Her body was shrinking, her complexion growing paler by the day. Worst of all, she was depressed; she hated feeling like she was letting me down, like she had nothing left to give me. But I still had something to give her. Food was a gift I could give my family, something warm and whole and substantial that could keep us going when we felt like giving up. A way to help during a time when I felt helpless. I loved seeing the joy on my parents’ faces when I presented a new dish I’d made just for them, even when Mom started having trouble keeping it down.
Amid the chaos of her decline, I had purpose, something to focus on that filled me with a sense of satisfaction. Cookinghad always been the one thing that made me feel good about myself… that is, of course, until I started culinary school.
ALI AND I HAVEvisited the Union Square farmers market every Saturday morning since we first met at ICE this past fall. When I step out of the train station a little before noon, I’m so joyful that I’m practically skipping. It’s one of those perfect spring days, the kind that makes people want to pack up a wheel of brie and a bottle of white wine so they can dine alfresco in Central Park.
After scanning the crowd for a minute, I locate Ali by an artisanal honey stand on the corner of Sixteenth Street. She’s dressed in black leggings, pink high-tops, and a long-sleeved T-shirt decorated in all of Justin Bieber’s tattoos.
“Nice shirt,” I quip as I approach her, wrapping one arm around her in a quick hug.
“It’s the closest I’ll ever be to Justin’s naked torso,” she sighs wistfully. She holds up a glass mason jar wrapped in checkered blue cloth. “Speaking of hot, what do you think: Do I need to know what hot honey tastes like?”
“Absolutely. Think about how great it would be drizzled over a sourdough waffle.” I grin at her. Coming up with new combinations is one of my favorite parts of cooking, something I thought I’d do more of in culinary school. But our classes are all about set recipes and mastering skills, not making up your own dishes. I can’t wait for the day I’ll get to make my own menu, changing it seasonally to come up with new creations using the freshest produce.
