I focus on the hairline crack in the ceiling. I’ve never seen it before. My alarm clock sounded a while ago, but I’ve been staring at the plaster above my head for so long that I’m starting to recognize every little stain and defect. I knew this was a very old house when I bought it. Memories of last night are cycling through my mind. My insides still feel jittery. I think I’m having a sex-with-Randy hangover.

My phone rings on the nightstand. I let myself hold on to one last memory of Randy and me kissing before it fades and I answer the call.

“Hello?” My voice sounds scratchy.

“Gina,” a man says.

I frown, unable to recognize the voice. “Yes, who’s this?”

“Jeremy. I met you yesterday at the café.”

I recall the good-looking guy with the fiery red hair and beaming blue eyes, something like the tabloid Prince Harry. “Oh, yeah.” I sit up and press my back against the headboard.

“I hope I’m not calling too early. I just wanted to see if you’re doing anything tonight.”

I stifle a yawn. “You really don’t waste any time when it comes to collecting your debts, huh?”

His chuckle almost sounds like a laughing hyena. “Not when the debtor is as pretty as you.”

I roll my eyes. I can tell this guy is full of it, but I do owe him, and I’d rather pay sooner than later. “I work till eight tonight.”

“What time do you think you’ll get home?”

I shake my head. “Just meet me at the Calypso.”

“Great, I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“Okay,” I say while yawning. This time, I don’t conceal it.

The phone disconnects. I set it down and fall back against my sheets and stare at the ceiling again. After a few steadying breaths, I come to the conclusion that tonight can be a new beginning. And, if nothing else, the old adage may apply: the fastest way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

I get out of bed, brush my teeth, and eat breakfast. This time, it’s a cup of coffee made on my Keurig, peppered poached eggs, and a couple of pieces of sourdough toast with my homemade apple spread. Every fall, I come home with apples from the orchards and spend the next few days making streusel, jams, cider, and, of course, a couple of pies. I sip and snack on them all winter long to warm my belly and remind myself that one day, winter will end. As I eat, I keep my mind off the sex I had last night by thinking about today’s class. This morning, we’ll be testing with a list of ingredients picked by Chef Sweet, and nobody knows what they will be. Days like this are my favorite. I smile, imagining myself on a show like Head Chef Total Domination, competing against Randy and winning.

After I’m done eating, I quickly head back to my room and put on a nice pair of jeans and a red sweater. I don’t have time to apply makeup, so I tap some perfume on each side of my neck, drop the eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick into my bag, and rush out the back door.

I live in a small house that I purchased in the Seward neighborhood of Minneapolis. It’s seventeen hundred square feet and built in 1901.

“Maybe you should marry before buying such an old house,” my mom said.

My dad went on to list all the problems that come with purchasing an antique—things that only a man could fix. By the time he got to the end of his list—which included plumbing, foundation issues, and wiring—he grimaced and after a moment nodded briskly. “But you can handle it.”

And oh boy, did I handle it. The remodel cost a lot, but I didn’t overpay for any of the work. Just as my dad expected, I ran the entire massive project like a well-oiled machine. I even had a two-car garage added to the back of my house.

I toss my bag on the passenger seat of the Mustang and turn the ignition. The car won’t start.

I grit my teeth. “Shit!”

I pop the hood and jump out. I just had the battery replaced a few weeks ago when the temperature was fifteen below. I open the hood and wiggle the connecting wires. One feels loose. The guys at the car place probably didn’t tighten it enough, and I’m just not getting a good connection. I grab a wrench from the tool bag I keep in my trunk and cinch it down. I sit back behind the wheel and try turning the ignition again. The engine roars to life, and I sigh, relieved.

Before long, I’m on the road and feeling grateful that my dad helped me tinker with his car. “I’ll be damned if my daughter is going to get caught stranded on the side of the road,” he’d say. In fact, he had a Mustang just like the one I drive. That’s probably why, after getting stuck in the snow twenty-some-odd times and having spun off the road twice, I still prefer it to my truck.

* * *

Even though I’m ten minutes early, the door to our classroom is open. There are already two other ambitious students here, sitting at their stations. There are twenty-five of us, and each station has a large bowl filled with colorful bell peppers. The sight of the bright red, yellow, orange, and green peppers together always makes me smile.

I wave to the other two early birds as I walk to my station. I take notice of the other ingredients—white wine, shallots, onion, garlic, and fresh rosemary. I lift a sprig of rosemary to my nose, inhale, and close my eyes. I just love the foresty scent. I pick up a sheet of paper that lists egg and a “mystery ingredient.” It’s something Chef Sweet does to throw us for a loop.

I roll my eyes. Personally, I also think he dreams of making our class like one of those reality cooking shows with him as the one and only judge.

The room is starting to fill up fast. As the minutes tick by, I think of possible dishes I could make. When it’s time for class to start, Chef Sweet arrives and closes the door behind him.

“Good morning, chefs,” he says as he walks to the cooler and unlocks it.

I love it when he calls us chefs.

“Today’s mystery ingredient is…” He pauses while walking back to the front of the room. It’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. “Salmon.”

Indistinct chatter starts echoing through the room.

Chef Sweet picks up the egg timer from his desk and winds it. “You have thirty minutes to prepare your dish. Make it look pretty and taste good.” He winks at us.

We all stand, frozen and ready to spring as if we’re all at the starting line waiting for the sound of the gun.

“Go,” he says, releasing his hand from the timer.

I, along with everyone else, dash to the cooler, where getting through the small door is never easy—everyone’s trying to jam through at the same time. While squeezing my way through, I decide I’m going to pan sear the salmon, poach the egg medium soft, and set two halves of a roasted red bell pepper on each side of the salmon filet with the poached egg on top of it. In addition to the salmon and egg, I grab some butter, Dijon mustard, and cream—all of which are considered core ingredients that we are free to use at our discretion. I’ll combine those with the grated rosemary, shallots, and white wine to make a rosemary dipping sauce.

Once I get my salmon, I run back to my station. I dice, slice, sear, roast, and poach as fast as I can. Twenty minutes go by in a flash. I put the finishing touches on my creation, adding two quarters of roasted onion, mostly for looks. I smear the plate on both sides with the pale greenish sauce. The egg, which I also lightly flavored with garlic butter, now sits atop the beautifully seared salmon and also has a dollop of sauce. Two halves of roasted bell pepper also lie on each side of the fish. Seconds after I finish, the timer buzzes. I step back, toss my stirring spoon to the table, and rub the sweat off my forehead. I take a second to look around me. At least a third of the class appears disgruntled, mumbling and moaning about being out of time before they could finish. Finally, I feel as though I can breathe again.

* * *

Chef Sweet walks through the room looking at what everyone’s done, not tasting anything but eyeing our presentations. Even those who haven’t finished get a grade. Although the order in which he grades is anybody’s guess. He goes from one of us to the next, sometimes skipping several in between. We all wait patiently for his arrival, prepared to answer any questions that he may have and, of course, waiting for the moment his taste buds come in contact with our cuisine. I watch the clock. Finally, he arrives at my table. Today, I am last.

He bends over and studies my plate, probing the food at various points with a fork. The freshly punctured egg yolk breaks and saturates the top of the egg. He looks up at me. He looks satisfied and ready to taste.

He cuts through the egg and salmon, swirls it through the sauce on the edge of the plate, and places it in his mouth. My heart pounds as his jaw churns. I scrutinize every last whisker, pore, and inflection on his face. Usually, I’m pretty good at reading his reaction, but today, I’m at a complete loss. I look through the corner of my eye at the others in class. All are watching.

He sets the fork gently back on the table and looks at me. “The sauce is…” His eyes wander. “Magnificent, bold. Everything”—he puts his finger in the air, pointing—“you’ve cooked to perfection, and the flavors are…” He now swirls his finger. “Alive.”

My shoulders fall, and I take a real breath.

“Today, your food is without a doubt, again, the best.” He turns, announcing to the class, “We have a winner.” It is the third of three such exams that I have won.

“Thanks, Chef,” I say.

He nods briskly and walks back to the front of the class. “I’ll give you twenty minutes to clean your stations, and then we’ll start on part thirty-two, which is what we’ve done today—preparing fish and poultry with eggs.”

As I clean my burners and take my pans to the sink and wash my knives, a number of students ask to taste my food. Each taster agrees my entrée is delicious. It feels good to get affirmation from my peers as well as my teacher. I swear all I did in law school was barely pass every exam, term paper, and internship.

Through the rest of class, I feel so good; all the narcotics in the world couldn’t make me feel this good. However, as soon as my Seasoning and Sauces class ends, a dreadful sensation gets lodged in the pit of my stomach. I have to go to work. I was hired to work the counter and register, but I’m a better cook. Sometimes I dread my job. But Randy’s not there today. Maybe I can ask the new person to let me work in the kitchen full time. I’m the best baker they’ve got anyway.

Finally, I can smile again as class ends. I quickly clean my station and leave for work with my fingers crossed, hoping I can abandon the register for good.