My decomposition

After a week of pastry training on Chicago, I land on the dusty fingernail of topsoil offered up by the Texan landscape.

I am feeling a touch bereft after being spoiled with like minded company, and drag myself back to the restaurant the next morning. Within my workspace the sight of Chicago Tribune building is not featured through the bank of windows of the city skyline. There are no tables set with fresh berries and chocolate babka for breakfast. We do not conclude our workdays here with a flute of Veuve Chicquot and talk of plating structure.

Spoiled for a moment.

I will keep this experience like a hand in my pocket, flat against a thick stack of folded twenties.