What is this place?

I want to take Kate to see the sunset. I agree with him, because it feels like it's been forever since I've stopped to see one of those. Kitchens have a funny way of pulling you into the fire just as the sun dips below the horizon. Tan faces with sandy blond hair stroll by, warm strawberry daiquiri smiles and full bellies. I can see a man breathing fire and the circle of tourists that surround him ooing and awing. We walk by a cart of painted conch shells that say "Christmas in Key West 2008" or "Your name here". My dad and I pass by the brick buildings that have withstood the named storms and those that crumbled under it's power. We are the brick buildings. He takes me to the top of a hotel on Duval Street and I buy him a cup of coffee. The sun slips lower in below the red and purple clouds. We stand there to wish it well. Earlier he told me that he wasn't surprised that I was back, that I just had too much sand in my shoes. I told him he was right. I've returned as a different person than when I left. For the first time in my life I can feel an actual shift in my heart, I think about how I feel about myself and I am embarrassed. Maybe I'll never gain that confidence back, it might be lost forever. I may forever second guess myself or never forget those names I was called in that car. I still fall into the thinking that they are all true. But now I'm back in a place where one is not judged by the price tag on your t-shirt or the fancy sports car you leave in the garage. Here the time you spend on tire swings is worth more than the time spent at salon. The sunsets are what count. And this one I am watching with my dad.

It needs a little salt.

I need a break. The board is clear for the first time all night and the heat from the grill is taking it's toll on my mental facilities. Not ten minutes ago I asked where the ticket for table 10 was, a tender mid to mid well/lamb rare straight in, only to be told that it was right there in front of my face. God, it's hot back here. I can't drink water as fast as I can sweat it out, my shirt is soaked and my sleaves are coated it pepper. The space between my nose and lips burn. This mark on my arm doesn't look so good. It reminds me of the scars of my parents where they had their polio shots. A two inch by three inch rectangle of heat radiating from my skin. The bicep seems to hold onto these things, maybe opposed to the palm of the hand or the top of the forearm. They heal nicely, this- this burn is going to be with me for a while and I am starting to hate it already. No more tickets, it's time to see the outdoors again. Inevitabley Ryan will join me, give me a high five and tell me that I handled myself. I will add that I handled it like a lady and maybe put my hand on my hip to emphasize it with a little more sass than a kitchen filled with men would usually have. But for now, it's quiet and I sit on an empty keg in the cage to give my feet a rest. It's nights like this that I remember Le Reve and the constant desire for Andrew's praise. Up and down the stairs, across the wine room into the sand bar, maybe you'd get a "Very Nice" but it was rare. All praise going to the man with the spoon in his hand and the plates at his feet. Tonight the food was good because I tasted it. I judged the salt content, I trusted my meat temps. And it wasn't a disaster. It tasted good because it came from these hands. I am a cook agin and tonight I made people happy.

Welcome back

Maybe it's just the way it smells in the south, like confederate jasmines and damp summer air, maybe that's why it feels so comfortable. I've been here for a week now and I've already grilled outside twice, threw a baseball in the backyard, spent an evening on a porch swing drinking jameson, and watched a game of beer pong in a party dome. This is the life that I know and despite the labels of grief I'm sure I will sustain, it's still the best time a girl can ask for. Tallahassee hasn't changed much. There's a new oyster bar where the soul food place was. My first night back at Cypress I drank dollar PBRs with the kitchen and watched as those braver than I slurped down Apalachicola half shells doused in lemon wedges and tabasco. I made a pyramid out of the empty beer cans and listened as a new crew of misfits talked shop under hanging paper lights. Maybe this is as good as it gets. For the first time in my life I embraced my accent and the road of southern heritage that took me from birth to adulthood. It's going to rise again and I'll be there to cheer it on.