In a previous life I was a chef.
Before I was a therapist, I humbly worked in retail, administrative work, and hard to believe-investment accounting.
When I decided to try my hand at cooking, it was because I thought I would be happier using my hands to fill the hearts of others with my cooking and that it would be easier.
It was not. It was such hard work. Sexual harassment happened being the only woman in the back of a kitchen, scary big flame burners and crazy hot ovens that opened in weird ways. Very sharp knives, very sharp, that sent me running to the bathroom to hide my cuts and pray for the bleeding to stop before anyone saw. Raw fingers and the smell of food absorbed into the ridges of my skin and into the fibers of my hair that never quite washed out. And late late nights catching the bus home at dangerous hours with sore feet, finger nails, and fingers.
I got out thankfully while I still loved the art of cooking and before I burned out too much to love creating beautiful food for those I love.
Oh my goodness. I will forever have so much appreciation and respect for those who work so hard and bring us beautiful meals to our tables in one way or another.
And so, here I am many years later making myself a beautiful salad I have been craving for months and recalling that cooking is therapy. After a hard day, this salad with all of its textures, and flavors, and juices have made me forget about all of things that I wanted to release today.
The end.