I’m sitting in the kitchen at my new job eating a lunch I made all by myself. The lunch involves a pita and an apple and an avocado. I know, right? I could be a chef (in a raw food restaurant). Any time I spend more than five minutes in the kitchen, I think of my dad, who actually was a chef. He was such a chef that he had a huge scar on his foot where he spilled boiling oil. I mostly remember it because it was the only part of him that didn’t tan. Just this huge patch of skin that never changed. He said he used to cook barefoot, which seems unsanitary. But I don’t know if he meant that in the restaurants or just like at home in general because I am barefoot 99% of the time I am in the kitchen and also just at home. I hate shoes ┬áso much. Who decided that we needed shoes? I mean, I like not getting diseases from stepping on stuff outside but I assume I’d eventually grow immune.

Anyway, my dad never actually cooked at home, which I guess makes sense. Why do at home what you do all day? Except he didn’t always have a job so he didn’t do it all day. What a waste of culinary school. The only thing he taught me about cooking was how to chop vegetables so I didn’t chop off my fingers. And I am pleased to announce that to this day I have not chopped off any fingers. Also when I was little he would impress me by making roses out of tomatoes and a basket out of a watermelon. So maybe culinary school wasn’t a COMPLETE waste. He also catered his own wedding. But the only thing I remember is the watermelon basket. I’m pretty sure there was other food but who even cares, you know.

I was six when he and my mom married. I was a flower girl. The morning of the wedding I said I didn’t want to do it. They thought they were threatening me when they said they’d get my cousin to do it instead, but I called their bluff by telling them that would be fine. (They made me do it, in the end.) That may have been the very moment I decided that if I ever got married I would elope.

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