While I've been busy working away, I haven't kept up with my internship homework required for finishing my program. So today, while on the bus going back to San Francisco from Truckee, I decided to dedicate this trip to the task.

I started the internship with more confidence than I've had in the past. My first day at Grace I spent cowering in the corner anxiously awaiting what daunting task my chef asked of me. It took me four times and two dozen eggs to make an aioli for goodness' sake! (…And even then, I relied on poor Flood, the Chef de Cuisine, to make it for me.) But this year I chose to make myself seen and heard - I would no longer be a mouse hiding for fear of being incorrect. 

I met Dana, an extern from the CIA in Poughkeepsie, who I had exchanged emails with before and who would be training me. With her black bandana tied around her thick dark brown hair and big eyes with thick lashes, she screamed confidence. She led me to her station, the "hots," that I would be helping with that night. We started by rolling out pizza dough to be assembled with blanched kale and spinach, chopped Greek olives, tomatoes, red onion, asiago, and feta. I was so glad knowing that she would be leading me, a young woman whose brightness shone in each dough she rolled out, in each olive she chopped. Everything looked so easy for her as she chatted to me about the environment of Greens and how she felt about those she worked with and the food she created. Everyone seemed to communicate with ease and a functionality that was clearly practiced. Chef Denny, my sous chef for the evening, explained how the kitchen worked, but allowed me to learn organically, or with the help of Dana. This freedom would follow me throughout the rest of my time at Greens and I believe, helped me gain a better understanding of both the kitchen, and my own strengths and weaknesses. 

With merely an hour left before the required break time (a new concept!), Dana put on the Rancho Gordo beans and tomatillo sauce to be seasoned and heated before settling in the steam kettle for service. We then set up the station, quickly slicing avocados, gathering utensils, and getting ready for "test plates." Annie and Denny would taste each dish to ensure its quality every night right before we went on break, then give us a commentary on their thoughts, whether it be praise or needed areas of improvement. 

In the coming days, I would learn how difficult finishing up the pizzas would be. Rolling out the doughs alone took such a long time for me. It would take me another three weeks before I really was able to get my station set up in time without needing help from another cook. The frustration I felt in this kept me from enjoying my time at the beginning of service, at 5:30. I felt completely hopeless and disappointed. I constantly doubted myself, saying, "I should have been faster! I should have been more efficient!" Ironically, when I started accepting help and advice, I was able to quiet my mind and therefore work with a speed I had not seen in myself, even while at NECI. 

At NECI, I always felt down-graded, as though I was less than other students. I was never able to keep up with them, despite my making lists and obsessive organization. In fact, this seemed to hold me up more, as I was constantly interrupted by my own pressing thoughts. Now looking back, I felt that I was never given enough time to feel comfortable enough with my station. I was always a step behind because I naturally need time to adjust to change. I have never been one to blindly jump in; I always want to fully understand and plan for the tasks ahead. My perfectionism, while helpful in some circumstances, has always been an issue for the pace at which I work. 

Now that I have become accustomed to all the parts of the station Dana has taught me, I can finally breathe and feel proud of myself rather than putting myself down for being too slow, too careless, too untimely. I thank Dana for a lot of this progress. She helped me to understand that everyone is like me at first, unsure of oneself, maybe asking too many questions. And I will get to a better place, it just may take a few misshaped doughs, a few pots of beans with burnt bottoms until I get to a comfortable point in which my confidence gleams like Dana's does. Ultimately, I have learned that I will get there - even if the destination is far away and my steps are slow - I will get there. 

As I have progressed with work, I have failed to do something that I love with all my heart: write. The past two weeks have brought pressure of an unequivocal sort. I have the same schedule every day waking up to the sirens below or the hair dryer relentlessly screaming  in the room beside me. I trample downstairs to the tiny gym and try to energize my sore self for the day ahead; the day that brings running and shouting, drenched in sweat, pulling the rope of concentration until its thread nearly breaks. I am proud to say that I can run a station independently at this point. Though I still struggle to be sure of having each ladle in place, each herb chopped, each ramekin filled in time for 5:00, I am like the turtle, finally catching up to the rabbit. Slowly, I tell myself, I will get there; I will get to the point in which break represents the cool breaths I take with the knowledge of preparation being finished - a new piece of the day in sight. 

I am sometimes told I move too fast, spinning around, physically imitating the thoughts in my head. And then I hear a voice beside me, Mr. U., telling me to slow down and breathe, telling me to listen and silence myself. Mr. U. has been working at Greens for years, extending the length of his employment not for the money or convenience, but because he loves his job. He began working at the restaurant about thirty years ago, when Greens was just emerging as one of the finest vegetarian places in the States, beside Moosewood in Ithaca, NY (a mere two hours from my home in Rochester; why I have failed to visit escapes me). Mr. U. seems to perfectly exemplify the Buddhist mentality he has towards life. He moves slowly, but with precision and grace. He desires to learn despite his deep canyon of knowledge. I look to him and see a wise man with peace engrained in each pore. When he teaches me how to season the beans or set up my mess of a station, I listen with the intent to soak up each word like bread doused in the sweet eggy custard of french toast. I look to him for guidance in the crazy world of a restaurant. Mr. U. reminds me of why I love the food I create at Greens: I am making something beautiful for the enjoyment of another being. He seems to pray with each dish he creates - only wishing for the love one will receive and thanking the world for the love he receives. In the middle of chaos, I glance beside me at a man with a smile beneath his lips and am reminded to regain my serenity.

My station has now become busier than ever. Along with the pizza (now it is fresh fig and goat cheese with walnuts and caramelized onions - my favorite, by far) and Spanish pupusas, we've introduced a new dish to the ever-changing menu: the Curry. On the plate lies a glossy sauce of coconut milk, cilantro, spinach, and Indian spices. I sear a round cake of coconut risotto yielding a crispy outer shell and place that on the outside of the plate. Next, I sauté green beans, snow peas, and yellow wax beans with olive oil, shallots, ginger, and (of course) salt, only slightly caramelizing the vegetables'  skin. I spoon a relish of cucumber and tomato, the heady perfume of thai basil playing with one's senses, inviting guests to question the lesser-known herb. I angle grilled eggplant (shout out to Aunt Patti!) and summer squash on the risotto cake. Garnishing the plate goes a crumble of spiced peanuts and toasted panko breadcrumbs - this always reminds me of the streusel at the top of my mother's apple crisp; we always look forward to the crack of it in our mouths. And now I want a bowl of apple crisp. Perfect. 

At last, I am beginning to find comfort in the kitchen, regardless of the loud clanking of plates, the smells of hot oil, the roar of orders, and my thunderous reply. And while all of this is happening, I forget what the real world is like, for this four hours of service, I am strapped into the seat of another reality, where only aprons and kitchen-speak exist, singing pans replace crickets and windows are the only escape. Within this four hours, I am only like a worker bee making sparkling honey for my queen. Instead though, I am Abby, and I have thousands of queens - all who enter through the heavy oak doors of Greens. 

Changes are happening within myself. I see the world around me through different eyes, the eyes of someone a bit more enlightened than last year. Then, I loved the city, being entranced by the danger and excitement of loads of people surrounding me. I used to dream of running through the busy streets in heels, heading off to a fashionable office job and going to dinner at a beautifully adorned restaurant. Now that I have been introduced to city life, my vision of it has been altered. The streets are busy, yes, but they are dirty, filled with drug addicts and garbage. The office job will only be in years to come. And the dinners can only be afforded by those who make millions a year because the price of living here is equal to the skyscrapers in which they inhabit. While I once viewed San Francisco as a picturesque image of sunny avenues and gorgeous people, I now hear the deafening car horns, the screaming; I smell the cigarettes and exhaust; I see blankets balled up on the sidewalk waiting until nighttime when some homeless person needs to sleep. 

Each time I escape to Truckee, I am immersed by nature. I see trees and water all around. And best of all, it is quiet. I never valued silence so much until I went to San Francisco, and to be able to abandon that is blissful. Now, instead of the ideals I held in the past of being a person constantly in a state of hurry, I feel an ever-growing need for the tranquility of the wild. While Mr. U. has led me to recognize when I need to breathe and cease thinking for even thirty seconds, I have learned that subjecting myself to the life I would endure in a city would be suffocating and completely negate the way I strive to live. Of course I will make every effort to seek the good in San Francisco, but I will no doubt look forward to each weekend I spend in the euphoria I experience in Truckee.