Rewind to January 2010. I was supposed to have an interview in a distant paradise-like island resort as a pastry/ sous chef. I had been interviewed by the chef de cuisine on December of 2009 and I passed, and was hence scheduled for a trade test. He gave me two weeks to prepare, besides, he said, he'd be on vacation. We'd meet when he came back. So for two weeks I had been baking incessantly to refresh my skills on the baking trade, and each time batches and batches of brioche, hamburger buns, feuilletes, and sponge cakes were taken out of the oven, my confidence grew with it. My family and neighbors were just too happy while I sweat myself out in the kitchen. It was Christmas season of '09 and our neighbors really thought that the cookies that arrived at their doorstep were given out of goodwill (not some baker's rehearsal).
January 2010 I went back to the city after spending the holidays in the big house in the province. The chef called again Thursday and scheduled me in his kitchen on the coming Monday. I said, alright. I was packing my bags when I decided to finally come face to face with what had been bugging me for the last few weeks : a missed period. And because I might sign a contract to work in a distant island, I have to really make sure. So I ran to the drugstore at nine in the evening. Pregnancy kit, please.
I went home, cold perspiration trickling down the side of my face. This is crazy, I thought. Then read the instructions. Drop a sample of urine... and the band turned purple. Deep purple. Positive. My hands were shaking, my throat dry, and I called who I needed to call-
“Mother, I'm in trouble...”
“Chef, I just found out that...”
“You sucker, look what you've done...”
Mother was passive.
The chef said congratulations, keep in touch.
The sucker was overjoyed.
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