The Chef's Hat

The Chef’s Hat

Macy pushed the swinging doors open to enter the kitchen. Her kitchen. The space that brought her more joy than anything else. The restaurant had been built from the ground floor by John, her husband. Memories flooded her brain as she watched the dance of the head chef and her helpers. The smell of sauteing garlic and onion mixed with the heavenly scent of prime rib and roasting chicken assaulted her senses today. It should be John wearing the white chef’s coat, calling out the orders, working his magic.

She stood, unnoticed just inside the door, unsure of what to do next. Clearly, they had functioned well without her. And without him. Grief washed over her as the memory of finding him on the floor played in her head, a never-ending video tape.

“Macy!” Sarah, the new head chef squeezed through the line of sous-chefs to get to her. She threw her arms around her. “Welcome back to the madness.”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this.” Macy trembled. “All I can see is…”

“I know, darlin’. I know. Come on, let’s go to your office.” Sarah took Macy by the arm and led her down the familiar route, through the kitchen to the office where Macy was met with many half hugs and big smiles.

A cacophony of “hello,” and “we missed you,” showered her. She loved her people, and they loved her.

Sarah sat her down in the office, eager to show her how well they had done. Macy ran her fingers over the top of the desk. They had christened the opening of the restaurant on that desk. And now his chair was empty. His chef’s hat still hanging on the hook by the door. Macy couldn’t breathe.

“Take your time, friend.” Sarah was saying. “I’m going to give you a minute and go check on the lunch menu.” She squeezed her friend again. “John is smiling on us. I know you can feel it.”

Left alone in the office, Macy allowed the tears she had been stifling to roll down her cheeks, rivers of unbridled grief. It had only been a month. But she needed to busy herself or she was going to lose her mind.

“What would John have done if the circumstances were different?” She whispered through her choked throat.

She could picture him, his giant frame, hunched over the desk and creating new recipes to try. Macy desperately wanted to continue his dream, their dream, but didn’t know if her grief would allow her. Damn grief had complete control of her life.

A knock at the door stopped the endless memory reel for a moment and Macy looked up to see Marco, their tried-and-true baker. She nodded for him to come in, wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand. She tried to speak but couldn’t.

“Hey Mace. I’m so glad you’re back. John wants you here. I can feel it. He talks to me, you know? I’m sure he talks to you, too. You may not be able to hear it yet, but he’s talking. In fact, this morning he assured me that what you needed was one of my cinnamon rolls and a mocha. So, voila!”

Marco placed the steaming coffee and warm cinnamon roll down in front of her. The glaze on the roll was gently melting down the side of the fragrant roll. John would have stuck his finder out to catch the drip and then would have stuck that finger right in his mouth. Macy reached out and let the icing land on her fingertip.

“Thanks, Marco. I, I’m…” She didn’t know what she was.

“It’s okay, Mace. Enjoy your breakfast than come out and join us. We’ve got a busy day ahead. We could use your help.” He winked at her and was gone.

The pile of icing was getting thick on her finger. She pulled it away and stared at it, then stuck it in her mouth. For the first time in days, Macy smiled. A rush through her chest gave her a warm sense of John and made it seem as though he was standing in front of her. She could feel his nod toward her apron. Tears spilled, but they were almost happy tears. The warm roll embodied who John was and finally, Macy felt him.

It was gone in a second, but something had happened. Macy was smiling as she clutched herself in a hug. She could feel him. That’s all she needed.

John’s apron was hanging on the hook next to his desk. Macy took a breath and wrapped herself in him. Suddenly the tears were gone, and she knew it was time to get back to work. Glancing back, she saw his chef’s hat. She picked it up and held it to her face for a moment, then opened the door to the kitchen.

It was like watching a choreographed routine. The shouting of numbers and entrees. How many minutes on the steak, pasta walking, carrots are ready. Sarah was at the helm and appeared to have gained the respect of the rest of the crew. She was in control. It was beautiful.

When Sarah saw Macy enter the organized chaos, she nodded with approval. “Macy, you’re on prep today. Special is grilled chicken with smashed potatoes. We need taters, gal!”

Macy, breathing deeply, stepped toward the station, but stopped in front of Sarah.

“He would want you to wear this.” She placed John’s chef’s hat on Sarah’s head and hugged her. “Thank you for keeping things rolling while I got myself together. You are the head chef now. Wear the hat with pride.”

Sarah, tongs in one hand and onion powder in the other, leaned forward and allowed Macy to place the hat on her head. “Let’s do this,” she whispered in Macy’s ear. Then, “Let’s do this!” she shouted out to the staff.

Applause erupted in the kitchen as the crew whooped and cheered for Macy. She grabbed a knife and planted herself in front of the prep station.

Let’s do this. I can do this, John.

She closed her eyes for just a moment and could still feel him, the rush in her chest and she could hear his voice.

You can do this, my love.

Macy opened her eyes, took the basket filled with potatoes and onions and began to prep. The kitchen sounds, the vibe, the buzz of the staff, and the heavenly scents of John’s recipes coming to life, fed her like an elixir. This was the best medicine.

You can do this, my love, rang in her ears and Macy began to chop.