A series of stories I will begin to write about my "what if" moments in life. Two roads diverged in the wood and I could only choose one. But...what would have happened if I picked the other? Where would I be? I guess I will never know, but it's always intriguing to imagine.
"Table 24, 1 steak! And 2 crabs for table 10!"
"Yes, chef!"
She turned to the fridge, grabbed a piece of marinated steak that had been resting on the tray for the past 2 hours and took it out. Then, she proceeded to pour a tablespoon of oil on a frying pan that had been sitting on the fire for a few minutes, waiting to hear the sizzling oil. In a few seconds, the pan began to sizzle and she put the steak in the pan. "Tsssssss!" it hissed. She shook the pan in a circular motion, and took a deep whiff of the satay marinade. Mmmmmm. It still smelt so good, even though she'd been cooking this almost everyday for the past 6 months. She took out the soft shell crabs that had been dipped into batter and gently lowered them into the pot of hot oil. It began to crackle and hiss angrily, as if warning her of the imminent splashes that were soon to happen. Deftly, she covered the pot let it continue to crackle and pop. She whipped out a pair of metal tongs and flipped the steak to the other side, hearing the angry sizzles from the pan as she did it. As it cooked, she began to hear the deep fryer quieten down. There it was! Her cue to open the pan. She did so, and pulled up the tray of fried crabs, leaving them to drain above the fryer. Now, onto the beef. Using the tongs, she put it on the black embellished plate and passed it to the other commis in the kitchen. "Table 24, 1 steak!" Once the plate was out of her hand, she took a large stride towards the fryer, her right arm grabbing a large metal dish and her left end wielding the tongs, as she fished out the fried crabs and put them on the plate. "Table 10, 2 crabs." she shouted.
The orders kept coming. Chickens, crabs, shrimp, she had to cook them all. At last, all the diners were out the door and the kitchen was closed for the day. She rested her hips against the stainless steel counter top and took a long gulp of water from her orange bottle. She enjoyed her day, but she was tired. With 6 day work weeks and being out of her house for 12 hours per day, being a line cook was no easy job. She enjoyed this, or at least, she thought she did. Cooking had always been something that gave her joy and being paid to cook and not have to clean up was pretty much her dream. But the long hours were having its toll on her. She thought back to the conversation she'd just had with her father last night.
"All I'm saying is, you can just submit an application and see how it goes!" he pleaded.
"What I am saying is that I know what the result will be! I know I can get into those courses they offer. But what for? I don't even want to do those courses. I want to be a chef. I'm already getting one step closer. I don't need university to become a chef, " she huffed.
"But you need a degree to prepare you for the workplace!" he exclaimed, as if it were a fact of life.
"Prepare me for what? What workplace do you have in mind? A 9-5, office job? I have said SO many times, I DON'T WANT IT! If I want to continue studying, I'll go to CULINARY SCHOOL!" she nearly shouted.
"Go talk to her," he said to his wife, clearly exhausted from the debate.
"Your dad just wants what's best for you," her mother says gently.
"And I thought you said you didn't care what I did, as long as I was happy," she retorted.
She removed her apron, grabbed her haversack, and began her walk to the train station, tonight, her parents would be home and she silently prayed to the universe that they would be asleep by the time she got back.
