[COMPLETED]
❝Death is inevitable. It's a promise made to us at birth.❞
Arielle is a studious young woman striving to be a chef. Her life is full of going to class, reading textbooks, and hanging out with her friends, until she meets Zayn. Zayn's an...
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➳ ARIELLE'S POV
"And of course, adding a miniature mint leaf on top not only adds colour, but also adds a small kick of flavour to the recipe," Chef Wilson says as his large meaty fingers delicately place a mint leaf on top of the dish.
I try my best to replicate exactly what he's done on his plate. It looks similar, but of course he's been cooking for over 25 years, I've been enrolled at the college for seven months. This plate of crunchy vanilla-almond French toast sits before me. The chef even had us make a simple fruit topping, and fry up some, what he called 'sweet-n-smoky bacon.' I had to admit, it smelled absolutely delicious.
Chef Wilson walks up and down the aisles, eyeing up everyone's dishes. He occasionally scratches at his tattered brown beard—a habit we've all grown used to. He's murmuring compliments to many of the other student chefs, and the occasional criticism. He begins slowly making his way down my aisle, and I can suddenly feel my heart in my throat.
Chef Wilson's opinion means the world to me. This college means the world to me. I've always wanted to be a chef. I can remember being told stories about how when I was nine years old, I was trying to cook my own grilled cheese, and when I succeeded I had to try it again. Of course, when I tried it again, I had to add my own touch. My grandma usually found me in the kitchen adding tomatoes, onions, jalapeño peppers, bacon, pickles, and even ham—anything to give it that kick of flavour. That's when I realized that this is what I was meant to do. When I graduated high school, I immediately enrolled in the top chef's college, right here in Miami.
Chef Wilson stands before me, glaring down at my plate, "Beautifully executed, Arielle. Wonderful job," he mumbles to me. He's always nice to me, maybe a little too nice, but I brush it off as him just enjoying seeing his students succeed. I mean, that's part of being a professor, right?
"Thank you, Chef," I respond. I can swear he smiles at me before walking towards the next plate.
After Chef Wilson is done viewing everyone's dishes, he gives us the go ahead to eat what we've spent all class cooking. It was great, of course—everything he has us cook is really quite delicious, but that's only if you cook it correctly.
Eventually he dismisses us, and we're done for the day. I clean up my station, wash my dishes, and hang my apron up in its usual place within the classroom.
"Have a great weekend, Arielle," Chef Wilson calls after me, just as I'm exiting the room.
"You as well," I answer before heading out the doors, listening as he calls out to another student to enjoy the weekend. I quickly scurry across the street to the dormitory, relieved for a mental break.
I walk into the large building and up to the third floor where my room is situated. When I open the door, Zoe is splayed out on the bed. "Hey," I say as I close the door behind me and sigh in relief.
