Cooking School


I was glad to see that the chef who taught my first class at culinary school was beautiful. She was funny, smiled a lot, and was a good instructor. Almost every class she would excuse herself and then leave the classroom for five to ten minutes.

One day she was trussing up a chicken and asked a student, James, to come up to the demonstration table and help her. When he finished and sat back down, he informed the rest of us that she smelled like Gin. The fact that she was drinking on the job did not bother us. Sometimes at night, drinking together after class, we would raise our beers and say, “This one’s for Chef Kathy.”

Then came one class when she was showing us how to de-bone a lamb. She sliced her finger–a deep cut–and she was unaware of what had happened. The blood dripped over the lamb like a red gravy. Somebody yelled, “Chef, you cut your finger.”
Chef Kathy ran out of the room. We wondered, was she going to belt down some gin for the pain or pour some on her finger?


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