Before long, I realized she was teaching me more than just cooking skills. She taught me how to be patient with people, how to share a meal, and how to take pride in something done well. I started noticing that my confidence grew whenever I stirred a pot and smelled something delicious that I had made with my own hands.
One day, after we finished baking some biscuits, Ms. Allen asked me, “Where do you see yourself when you’re older?” I hesitated. Nobody had ever really asked me that question so directly. “I’m not sure,” I mumbled. “Somewhere, I guess.”
She wiped her flour-covered hands on a dish towel and said, “You’re allowed to dream bigger than ‘somewhere.’ You know that, right?”
I shrugged. “It’s hard to dream big when you can barely afford dinner most days. People in my situation don’t usually get to choose.”
She gave me a thoughtful look. “Maybe that’s why you should dream bigger—so you can choose something different for your future.” Then she broke into a gentle smile, her eyes warm. “Listen, you have real talent in the kitchen. You don’t just do what I tell you—you’re tasting the food, adjusting spices, noticing if the sauce is too thick or too thin. Not everyone has that instinct.”
Her words stuck with me for days. The next time I visited, Ms. Allen had a small notebook ready for me. “Write down the recipes that we try,” she suggested. “And if you come up with an idea, jot it down. You never know what might come of it.”
So I did. And gradually, that notebook filled up with dishes we made together: stews, baked fish, roasted vegetables, homemade pasta sauces, and even desserts like banana bread. Every time we completed a meal, I wrote down how we did it. I asked questions, tried new things. When I wasn’t cooking, I was thinking about it. For the first time in my life, I had something that felt like my own special gift.
Over the years, things changed. My mom worked odd jobs, saving every spare dollar. We never became wealthy, but we had enough to keep us going. And my relationship with Ms. Allen continued to grow. I ended up babysitting Zara’s younger siblings on weekends. I helped Ms. Allen clean the kitchen after big family gatherings. Sometimes I would drop by with groceries if I found a good sale at the market.
One day, right after my sixteenth birthday, Ms. Allen pulled me aside and handed me a sealed envelope. I opened it to find a gift certificate for a culinary workshop in town—a workshop for teens interested in exploring cooking as a career. “I know it’s not something huge,” she said, “but I think you’ll really enjoy it. The workshop is with a local chef who teaches the basics of professional kitchens.”
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