Published today, the below is a super cute true story written by my high school friend turned pastry chef  :Lessons from a Spoon Text with image | Friday, February 9th, 2007 | California  October 2006 to January 2007, Los Angeles, California
By Yuko Kitazawa I knew I wanted the job when the first thing I saw my potential bossdo was dip gobs of marshmallow cream in bright pink, beet-stainedcoconut flakes. An eager candidate, I jumped into the white sticky messand rubbed my palms together, forming golf-ball-sized confections sweetenough to make Willy Wonka jealous. “I feel like a kid playing in a sandbox!” I beamed. He nodded and said, “Yes, a lot of what we do here is kids’ play.” So when the popular Hollywood restaurant called to offer me theAssistant Pastry Chef position, I was thrilled. Not only was my boss,Albert, clearly talented and humorous, but he impressed me as anall-around nice guy. If you believe the common media portrayal of chefsas melodramatic, tantrum-throwing egomaniacs, you’re not far off. In myfive years working as a culinary professional, I have seen worse thanHell’s Kitchen. But here was Albert, who was in turns an affable,wisecracking Jewish uncle, and an inspiring and patient teacher. I had the perfect job with the perfect boss! Can this really all be mine? Two blissful weeks passed. On the night before Halloween, a motherly voice shook me from this indulgent yet very real dream. “He’s very crazy, your boss. Be careful, mi japonesa,” whisperedAnita, the feisty Latina salad cook, as she popped into the pastry areato retrieve a bowl of all-purpose flour. “Huh? Why? He’s really cool.”Without a reply, she shot a narrow-eyed glance at Albert and hurriedback to her station to mix blini batter, leaving me a little anxious. The dining room buzzed that night and the kitchen was a circus.After Albert excused himself - he starts early in the morning, and hasa marriage to save, after all - I plated the 50th dessert at midnight,scrubbed the station clean, and went home. 11a.m. next morning, I staggered out of bed to find a new message onmy mobile phone. I dialed. “Yuko, where is my spoon?” a deep, indignantmale voice blasted my ear. “I can’t find my spoon. Call backimmediately.” A sharp inhale of breath, then an abrupt hang-up. He mayjust as well have learned that his wife had been kidnapped. My stomach fluttered. Oh no, the spoon. He had instructed me threetimes to wash it myself and place it in a particular container, not tosend it to the dishwasher. Last night, swamped knee-deep in tiramisuand chocolate mousse cake, I had absentmindedly tossed his spoon into amurky plastic tub filled with dirty utensils from the dining room. Oh. No. Every serious chef regards his knives as some of his most prizedpossessions. Albert extends such extreme care toward his spoon. “It isno ordinary spoon,” he reminded me on Day One. It’s the only spoon inthis kitchen designed to create a perfect quinelle. A quinelle refersto a long, tapered football shape fashioned out of food using a spoon,a cylindrical container (the curved inner surface is key), and multipleflicks of the wrist. We use Albert’s spoon to make the kind of prettyice cream quinelles you see in Gourmet Magazine. Albert protects his spoon like a mother protects her newborn baby.He found it in an antique shop during an East Coast vacation. Unlikemany of our tools, it can’t be replaced with a trip to Sur La Table.Initially, I regarded his babying of the spoon with curious admiration.But that was before I witnessed a different side of him. After apologizing profusely to his answering machine, I returned towork with a bad taste in my mouth. Albert did not greet me with hisusual gregarious, “Hey, how are ya?” The other cooks avoided him likedogs that instinctively avoid their master in a pesky mood. As it wasimmediately clear that he did not want to talk to anyone, I decided toshift my thoughts toward work. The spoon was recovered the next day, naturally. All 17 employeesknew about Albert’s Spoon, and kept an eye out for it. Since thisincident, whenever Albert was to be absent from work for more thanthree days, the spoon accompanied him. On such an occasion I resortedto using The Imposter, a similarly shaped but cheaper and lighterversion of the worshipped utensil. Albert was his easy-going self again, high-fiving the waiters and cracking jokes. Mid-December. The cold air outside came in through the vent, andwithout the advantage of working over open flames that the line cookshave, the two of us endured numb fingertips and clattering teeth.Seeing me crouched by the convection oven with the door ajar, a waiterkindly delivered me a cappuccino, its snowy white cap almost fallingoff the ceramic cup. As my upper lip touched the hot liquid, an orderrang in. I set down the cup and tossed two caramel-filled crepes in abuttered pan, while Albert splashed red and yellow sauces across awhite plate like Jackson Pollock on a sugar-high. Company policy allows us to have coffee or soda during service, aslong as it is contained in a plastic cup and placed away from the worksurface on a raised shelf, and for good reason. When Albert turnedaround and reached for an off-set spatula, the sleeve of his oversizedchef’s coat caught the cup’s handle, causing coffee to pour all overthe counter, soak through a stack of unfilled crepes, and drip to thefloor. Two seconds of unbearable silence, then it hit like a storm. “Where the fuck is your head? How many times did I tell you to keepthe fucking cups out of my sight?” Inches away from my face, my bossfrothed at the mouth. I let the torrent of angry words pass over myhead like clouds in the sky, and calmly slid the sautéed crepes ontothe decorated plate. “Get your head and ass screwed together!” was thefinal blow, and this affected me. My eyes welled up. I excused myselfto the restroom. I did not want him to see just how much I feltdemoralized by his outbursts. The third episode occurred on a donut night, or as the managementprefers to call it, “doughnut shoppe.” Every Wednesday, we offer analternative menu of fried-to-order donuts with such offbeat fillings asred bean paste and rosemary marshmallow. He did not like the way Iglazed a particular plate of donuts. He shouted. I walked out. I criedin my car for 30 minutes, before making a sheepish reappearance. With asullen look on his face, he apologized. He asked if I wanted to quit. Isaid, “No, not yet.” January arrived, along with a new dessert of caramelized quince andapples atop puff pastry. Albert learned from his mother that thecondition of his 90-year old grandfather, who lived in Florida and wasfighting cancer, was quickly worsening. One night while waiting for what seemed like hours for our firstorder, Albert told me a story. When he was 7 years old, weekends wereoften spent at his grandfather’s coastal home, sleeping over andgetting up at dawn to go fishing on a boat. On one of these carefreeoccasions, young Albert was unhappy. The ocean was rough, and not asingle fish was caught. He asked his grandfather, “Why do we have tohave bad days?” Grandfather replied, “So tomorrow can be better.” He passed away a month later. Albert flew to Florida to attend hisfuneral. It would be four days before he returned. I got to work early.At 6 o’ clock, it was time to set up for service. I needed a spoon. TheImposter will do, I thought. But when I reached for it, nestled amongassorted ordinary spoons and spatulas, there it was. The Spoon. Maybehe had simply forgotten to take it, because he had so much on his mind. I wanted to believe otherwise. When he returned the next Wednesday, it was donut night as usual. Weexpressed our sympathies, and I worked hard to ease the weight off hisshoulder, physically if not emotionally. He was rather energetic andjubilant, but perhaps he did not want to be reminded of his sadness. “What an idiot,” I said to myself, and braced for a torrent ofprofanities. I had just over-torched Albert’s famous vanilla bruleedonut. Thin smoke arose from the blackened surface. Albert discoveredwhat had happened. He looked at me. Then, as though prompted by a divine voice, heclosed his eyes and placed a hand on his temple. “Life is short. Lifeis short.” I heard him mutter under his breath. He went on to garnishhis plate with chocolate sauce. Albert’s grandfather was right. We all have bad days, so tomorrow can be better. Yuko Kitazawa lives and works in Los Angeles. She is a graduateof UC Berkeley and The Culinary Institute of America in New York. | 
. As you can see, my social has been suffering quite a bit, but I don't mind. I LOVE being a homebody. I could also work on my spirituality. Career is the same. Grad school is getting much better. Love is the same. My health is getting a lil better only b/c i kicked my sweet-tooth to the curb
. My blood sugar levels were off the charts a few weeks ago but thankfully have gone down since. 
