Under the Table Read Free

calm myself down by picturing what I would make for dinner. The thought of chopping vegetables and sautéing immediately made me feel more calm. At last we were invited in to sit down; I took a seat and began to case my future classmates.
    There were twenty-four of us in all, twelve men and twelve women, and as students filtered into the auditorium, I wasn’t the only one checking everybody out. I was one of the only people wearing something other than jeans, and I was definitely the only one in high heels. Most of the male members of my class were wearing jeans and T-shirts, and not in the Euro, artfully disheveled way I was familiar with, but in the I-just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-put-this-on way, like they might be late for a monster truck convention somewhere. The girls were all wearing jeans or skirts with tops in varying degrees of trendiness. One girl was rocking the whole seventies thing—Dr.Scholl’s, polo shirt, Farrah Fawcett waves. She looked cool. Another was wearing a loose knee-length skirt with a surfer tee and hemp bracelets—total West Coast laid-back chic. I was the only one who seemed to be trying so hard that even my clothes were embarrassed.
    I knew I should be paying more attention to the instructions we were being given in this lecture, the first in our three-hour orientation session before classes were slated to begin. But I was still nervous, and feeling more uncertain that I had made the right decision quitting my job to pursue my dream. But I definitely wasn’t the only twenty-something here—most of the class looked like they were in their late twenties or thirties, probably looking to do something a little bit different than the nine-to-five grind they had been doing since college. That made me feel a little better—I was being daring and following a different path, but here were a bunch of other people just like me. There were a few people who were older than the rest of us, and a couple of students looked like they were fresh out of high school. Well, if my dreams of being a chef didn’t work out, at least I could fall back on my actual college degree. I wondered what these youngsters would do if there was a chef recession, but I guess no matter what, people need to eat.
    I tried to focus on what was being said from the podium on-stage. There were directives on what could and could not be worn underneath our school-issued uniforms and on personal grooming. Men were expected to shave every day, and women were expected to keep their hair up and out of harm’s way at all times—not just to keep it out of the food, but also to keep it from becoming tangled in the industrial-grade machinery we would be working with. I thought of getting sucked into the chomping jaws of some giant sausage grinder and shuddered. I brushed my own long blond bangs out of my eyes and wondered whether I should just lop it off for the duration. Hands and fingers should always be scrupulously clean; no jewelry would be permitted—not even wedding rings.
    No problem there, I thought to myself. I had never been the sortof person to wear a lot of jewelry, and while Michael and I were perfectly happy, I didn’t think wedding bells were going to be in our future anytime soon. Maybe ever. Michael was in his late thirties, never married, and hadn’t ever had a really serious girlfriend before I moseyed into the picture. I had always vowed that I would wind up a little old spinster with lots of cats, tending a huge vegetable garden and canning my own jam.
    For a few minutes I was so lost in my thoughts, mapping out my heirloom tomato patch and refining my recipe for tomato jam—perhaps some balsamic vinegar for zing, and a vanilla bean for comforting spice—I forgot to listen to the lecture. I came back to earth with a thud, just in time to catch the rest of the instructions about proper grooming. The nails should be trimmed very short and always be free from dirt and grime.