“Weighted down by the duffle bags on my eyes, I’m up again at the crack of dawn. One leg in front of the other, I trolley myself to a place of communion. I pass the sturdy oak table, holding a spread of old, half-eaten food; empty fry boxes, damp cups of sticky Dr.Pepper, twice-folded take-out containers, and a structurally sound pyramid of noodles. Reaching out towards the espresso martini grain cabinets, I grab my striped apron freshly stained with grapes. Two knots above the hip will always do the trick. The stench of crisp, burnt oil still lingers from the nightcap, becoming stronger with every click of the gas stove. I should make something simple, I think to myself, placing a cast iron directly to the flame. Somewhere along the line, I lost the beauty of knowing exactly who I am.”
