Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 112755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112755 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
For some reason, Mrs. Florence popped into his mind at that moment. Perhaps it was the unbearable heat from the grills getting to him, or the sun beating down on him, making him woozy. Either way, he began to feel a tad bit queasy as he mulled over English’s words.
I like workin’ out. I go to the gym four to five times week, but I wouldn’t want to be a personal trainer. I don’t want to clean up death scenes for the rest of my life, regardless of how good the money is. I guess when I think about it… yeah… I wouldn’t mind cooking every day for a living. But it would have to be a real nice place. And good money.
Mrs. Florence said I was good at school, baseball, puzzles, cooking and fixin’ stuff. I was one of the few boys in Home Ec. Class, but I didn’t care.
Awww shit. I remember when Mrs. Florence had us bring in snacks on the last day of school before summer break. I made some home-made salsa, and brought in a bag of Doritos. I diced some peppers, onions and tomatoes over ’em, and she was so impressed…
Damn, I forgot all about that. When I cook, it takes my mind off things. It’s like I’m in my element. It’s a stress reliever. English was right. It does come to me naturally. I like watchin’ people eat, too. I like them being happy because of something I did. Something I made. Why should I spend money though, to be given a piece of paper to do some shit I already know how to do?
He sat down on a nearby chair and smiled at a few people, pretending to not be in la-la-land, entertaining his own thoughts. After a few minutes, he pulled out his phone and Googled: Cooking schools in Louisville, Kentucky…
What could it hurt just to look?
Two weeks later…
Desiree slung her camel leather boho bag along the back of her chair and opened her computer. It would be fifteen minutes before class started at Sullivan University. This was her second week in the culinary arts program, and she was looking forward to listening to the guest speaker—Pierre Richard, who worked at the famous Bellagio Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas.
She wiggled a bit in her size sixteen jeans. These finally fit comfortably around her thick thighs and ample ass. It was at times hard to find jeans that were suitable for her curves, and hugged her the way she wanted them to. She was super thick, as her sister would say, with a coke bottle shape, and at five foot ten, getting the right attire that complimented her shape was sometimes a real struggle.
She pulled out her phone and checked to see if she’d missed any messages from her twelve-year-old daughter, Kaylee, who’d recently talked her into giving her a cellphone. After all, they were living in troubling times, so this was necessary, as long as it was only used to communicate with her, and for emergencies. She read her daughter’s text message and smiled. Kaylee had gotten off the bus just fine for school, and made it to her first period class.
She quickly texted back: Have a good day, baby. Make sure your phone is off. You know you can’t have it on in school. Then, she slipped her phone back into her purse and took a sip from her water bottle.
Fellow students paraded in, all different races and ages, and she waved to a few of the ladies she knew from prior classes. It was a competitive program to get into, and she was thrilled that the college was so close to her apartment—just a short ten-minute drive. After a few more minutes, the teacher, a former Chef de Cuisine for a popular local restaurant, walked in with a cup of coffee and greeted everyone, then sat behind his desk to get a presentation together on his laptop and the overhead screen.
Today, they wouldn’t be in the cooking area. It was just a period of guest appearances, and classwork. She welcomed the reprieve, as she’d been up half the night working overtime as an administrative assistant for a company that sold vitamins. She also made one-of-a-kind candles and soaps and sold them on Etsy, earning great supplemental income, and found seasonal work to bring in a little more revenue. Her bills were paid, but at times, things were tight. What she was doing now would offer a path to solid, permanent income.
Her schedule was jam-packed, but she was working toward an important goal: To eventually run her own restaurant, and take care of her and her daughter. First, she needed to hone in on her cooking skills. Beef them up a notch. She was a damn good cook, but she could be better. This move would bring them peace and financial stability. God knows her daddy ain’t no help. She yawned and sat back in her seat.