When 6:17 rolled around the next morning I woke feeling... refreshed? Happy? I lay in bed until I pinpointed the emotion. Excited. I dressed quickly and came into the office with a container of three pepper pecans, which I set next to the coffee machine where Little Cut put the bagels the other day and where birthday cakes and retirement cakes were featured every now and then. They weren't much to look at in my chinsy plastic Cool Whip tub, but they were totally addictive. "Small, but mighty," a teacher had once told me. I'd doubled the recipe. The other half was waiting in a much nicer container ready to take to Abby's.

The day was a busy one. My phone rang off the hook, but in between calls people I didn't even know were sticking their heads in my cube with mouths full of pecans. "These are amazing!" "So good!" "Can you give me the recipe?" Little Cut caught me between calls. "Did you make these?" He jostled the nuts in his hand, then popped one in his mouth.

"Depends. How are they?" Okay, I might have been fishing a little, I admit it.

"Incredible. It's like their sweet and spicy, for real. Not like sweet and spicy chicken you order and it's actually just sweet OR spicy." He ate another.

"Culinary school."

"Hm?" He was very distracted with the pecans. I almost lost my nerve, but forced tongue to repeat itself.

"The other day when we were talking about our majors in college? I went to culinary school. So." I motioned toward his handful of nuts. "I can make a few things."

"What?! What the heck are you doing here? Wait. No, that came out wrong. I like you here. But. Just. These are really good, is what I'm trying to say."

I smiled. "Good to know I haven't lost my touch. I'm helping your sister with a dish for her French class, but honestly I haven't cooked anything in..." Eleven years. "A long time."

"Wow. You need to start again. If you can do this kind of thing? I can't believe you could have been cooking for our department this whole time. Now that we know this is your jam, I have some requests."

I put my headset on. "Sorry, can't hear you!" I said loudly, laughing, "Lots of super important calls!"

"That's fine! I'll make a list! Mwah!" He kissed his fingertips, then brought them back to his mouth and licked the residual spice from them. My body tingled. Pride. I vaguely remember this feeling from before. Nailing a dish or meal and the praise that came with it. Of course, I was never in it for the praise. For me, the real fun was last night, moving around the kitchen with real purpose, spices hitting my nose, concocting ingredients until the flavors were more than just edible, but actually next level delicious. I wanted to mope about the sad memories cooking stirred up, but all I felt was familiarity, relief, joy.