I want to be a chef too!
Chapter 18: When I was in high school I had a deep crush on my English teacher because she wore tight fitting hand knitted wool turtlenecks. When she gave us a short story assignment I wanted to woo her into a Letourneau submission. It was a silly love story I wrote about a chef that wanted to make the perfect strawberry soufflé for the girl he adored. He milled his own flour, raised his own hens and hand pureed the strawberries that he delicately, at first, and then vigorously beat into the batter. It was the greatest soufflé the forlorn chef had ever made. After she ate it, the girl professed her love for him and then died because she was allergic to strawberries. I told Clive how proud I was of that story. I managed to get a C-plus forever crushing all hope of a jaunt with Miss Junjulas but I had researched the art of soufflé making. Pete, the German sauce maker that worked for my father had given me the recipe and had showed me how to make it rise like a nuclear mushroom. It was such a delicate subtle passionate matter to have a successful soufflé rise that I became intrigued with the intricacies of the chemical make-up of eggs and flour. I was hooked. From that day on, I told my friend, I wanted to be a chef.