I eat everything. There's nothing bad I won't eat, nothing I don't like. But I'm not happy if someone gives me plain rice and carrots. I'll eat plain rice and carrots, but I'd rather not. I don't like cooking at all—not even a little bit—even though I go to hospitality school. I'm really good at the front desk, greeting guests, and I'm a good waitress too. I can carry plates and clear tables. But I don't like being in the kitchen. I go because I have to, or I'll get a bad grade. And at home, my mom is always telling me to help her cook. I make toast with ham and cheese slices. That's it. I make two and eat them myself. I have no interest in learning to cook. I can make breakfast, though: I pour cold milk into a cup and add five spoonfuls of cereal and break them up with a spoon. But I like a croissant and cappuccino from the bar in front of school better—and I pay for it myself at the register.
I have my mom at home, and then there's my grandmother, who's an amazing cook. Plus I'm scared of burning my hand on the fire. At school I studied all the different cooking methods—steaming, double boiler, roasting, oven, grill, griddle. There are so many. I didn't understand some of them. But when the teacher called on me, I knew them all by heart and got a great grade: an 8. I don't like the chef's apron, though. I can't move right in it. My classmates dressed up as chefs, with those big hats, they make me laugh. It looks like carnival, not work. Why do I have to wear a hat? I don't want anything on my head. They make me tie my hair back and I don't want to. I get angry and make a fuss. But then I have to do it anyway because it's the rule, and I get a mark in the register. My mom sees it right away because she can check the register on her computer, and then I get a lecture at home too. No, cooking is a real pain. I'm happy to eat what other people make. I like everything they cook. And I tell them they're great, so they're happy and they go cook again. And I eat.