Cooking for Therapists

Julie listened very closely to the story. She was sat across the room from me, on the left side of the large leather sofa, dressed in her loungewear with a steaming hot cup of tea that had dripped onto her overly fluffy slippers. Her long blonde hair and her perfectly crafted face that was entirely without flaws, makeup or no makeup, and stunning figure, were a constant reminder to me of how unsuitable she was for a balding, fat man like me. I remained in my work clothes, a tweed blazer buttoned up in front of a blue checked shirt, tucked into my Ralph Lauren skinny jeans. I had taken my suedes off for the evening. I took off my glasses and rubbed my eyes hard with the thumb and two fingers on my right hand, mulling over what I would do after Julie left me. My ultimatum had been clear, “Isaac, you’re a therapist, now sort your own mind out or I’m going, I can’t deal with this any longer.” She had delivered it through tears, and I agreed with her, it was all justified. I was tasked with defeating my own mind’s stress and pressures. My only choice was to relax and release my stress, and ultimately be free; or she would leave me forever. I started the story.

“Dr. Iris will see you now, please go through.” I heard the voice of my assistant, Janine, through my opened door, beckoning in another client. I would go through the same process now, I would look at them and nod whilst they unloaded absolutely everything about their whole lives onto me, every man they wish they’d kissed, every promotion they’d missed, and every dream they’ve “always had”.

I would always help them, and I don’t want you to think I don’t care because I really do. There is just always a nagging load in my head, every client walks out the door with a completely free mind and a wholly cleaned conscience, though that negative energy lands somewhere; and it lands in my head. Or at least, that was what Dr. Jameson told me last Monday. Barry is an old friend of mine and has always offered me his help when I have needed it.

I ruffled my hands through my hair several times in the waiting room, and made my way through several coffees from the complimentary machine, flicking through the magazine in front of me very carelessly. Barry came through after around an hour, shook my hand firmly and led me through to his room. He offered me the long couch in the corner, but I already felt strange going to another professional to help with my own profession, so I took the swivel chair on the other side of his populated desk. His chair was a large, rounded one, and his large belly only just allowed him to reach his notebook on the centre of his desk when reaching from his chair. He moved several folders and papers in order to open the book, and put his glasses on to his ageing face, flicked his quiff and looked up at me, embracing me with a warm smile.

“I must say Isaac, I was very surprised to receive your call asking to see me.” He said calmly.

“I’m here more on Julie’s advice than my own will, Barry.” I replied quickly, making sure he was aware that I was fine really.

“The will of other’s is the subconscious will of yourself.” He replied philosophically. I didn’t see his point. But I smiled and remembered why I was here; Julie.

I told him everything that Julie had told me, all about the stress and the issues with relaxing, and about how I had snapped at her a few times from it. I confessed that I was allowing all my work life to go home with me, and that the pressures and concerns of clients were becoming my own, which had forced me into an outburst of emotion in my office more than once.

Barry smiled and nodded in the therapist way. “Have you thought about an evening class?” He suggested.

“An evening class? You mean like pottery?” I said, surprised.

“Well, perhaps, but I was thinking more along the lines of cooking.” He said this very firmly, as though he had prepared this solution before I came into the room.

“I don’t really cook, Julie does that.” I dismissed the suggestion in a polite but firm way.

“Ahh but that’s just the thing then, a new skill which you can learn. Here, listen Isaac, you’re an excellent therapist, one of the best, but you’ve got to learn to let go. This is a great way of doing that, forget about it all and start something new.” He said this in such a tone that he might remind you of a Father.

I thanked him, shook his hand and left.

That night I sat up for hours, hopelessly searching the internet, in my work clothes, until the early hours of the morning, looking for a cookery class. Granted, I found one within seconds but I kept dismissing them as not being “for me”, and looking for another every time. Julie was in our bedroom, I was sleeping in the spare bedroom now. At about 5am, I found the perfect class. Their website was dry and understated, with just a sentence describing what the class was, and then a sign up form. It read;

Learn to cook exotic and wild foods with a great mix of people, weekly. Meet every Monday night at the town hall in Northampton.

The word ‘Wild’ was what attracted me, it was a word that Julie had used when we had argued about my stress situation, and it seemed perfect because of this. I filled out the sign-up form and slept until 8am. Then I left for work with a clean shaven face, a new shirt and an old blazer I hadn’t worn for years. I smiled at Julie as I left, and stopped for my first ever Frappuccino on my way in.

The next Monday I went along to my class, in my work clothes, feeling as though I would be the only new member, and that everyone would glare at me as I went in. I started to stiffen up again, and ruffled my hair out of place. I sat in the car on the other side of the road from the town hall, making myself ten minutes late, frozen to the spot by nerves. I switched the radio off, grabbed my wallet and opened my car door. I walked across the road, dodging a very reckless driver as I approached the big brown double doors that loomed over me. I went in.

I found five chairs arranged in a neat circle in the centre of the room, with each occupied by a man in a suit, with the exception of one woman, also in smart work clothes. What was clearly the course leader, a crazy-looking woman dressed in a patterned skirt and wild ginger hair, with a tie die top that was much too big for her, addressed the group with heavy hand gesturing, her numerous bracelets and necklaces jiggling around as she moved about the room. I looked around the room and met the eyes of another man in what were presumably his work clothes, a pinstripe black suit, with a red tie and clean white shirt, he had obviously used product in his hair, and I assumed he must be a City banker. They were all here for the same reason as me.

I pulled a chair up from one side of the room, and awkwardly broke the circle’s pattern by putting it in between two already close-together chairs on the edge of the group. I didn’t look up at the two people I had wedged myself in-between.

“Now, this is a ten-week course, over which time you will become disciplined in some of the world’s finest and most exotic foods. We will cover regions from Azerbaijan to Iceland, and you will all get a chance to create some of the wildest combinations known to man.” She spoke with real excitement and enthusiasm and a sort of spiritual tone, as though she was discussing her inner soul as she spoke. She reminded me of a client I had had some years ago, a woman who had “found herself” on her gap year and now wanted to open a book shop. I nodded and said “do it.”

“Now, to start with you’ll all work in pairs, and let’s see, there’s 6 of you now so that should work just fine, if you all want to partner up –“

Our spiritual guidance counsellor was interrupted by the door swinging open and a large, fat, bearded man stumbling in. He wore a tight tank top that was almost hilariously unsuitable for his physique, this tucked in to some short, wide birth jeans, and a pair of sandals, which he wore with white sport socks. His hair was down to his shoulders, and was as grey as his beard. This man was drunk.

“Sorry ‘bout that, wa’ just parking the motor!” He laughed. He glared at me as I recoiled at his notion that he had driven here. He stumbled over to the other side of the room and grabbed a chair, and parked it in between me and one of the people I had already annoyed with my position, his arm hair rubbing against my face as he sat down. He stank of alcohol and cigarettes.

“Did I miss much like?” He said to me in a surprisingly friendly tone, though I shook my head in a very unfriendly reply.

“If you all want to pair up with the person sat next to you that would be of the highest excellence!” She said, plunging a dagger into me. I was inevitably going to be partnered with the intimidating drunk. I bit my bottom lip and closed my eyes, opened them up and looked heavenward, sighed and walked over to my station with Jock, who I was now informed had “never cooked before, y’knaw!”

Jock was tired, and used the chair behind our cooking station for the duration of the evening, occasionally getting up and asking me “haw’s it gain?”, at which point I would nod reassuringly. He would then sit back down and take a swig from his hip flask, which had a skull on the front. He kept clearing his throat and sneezing at the same time, and I felt the product of his outbursts hit the back of my ankle on one occasion. I think he fell asleep at one point.

I tied my apron around my blazer and jeans, rolled my sleeves up and washed my hands with the soap and sink provided. Once our instructions had been handed out to every station, we were told to begin. I read the recipe, which was for an Egyptian dish, Arabesque cucumber salad, something the course leader had named “An exciting Egyptian education, my darlings!”

I took the ingredients, various items including mint, parsley, yogurt and of course cucumber, arranged them all neatly and began to read the recipe, interrupted now and again by the synapses of Jock abusing my ears and nose.

Once I had the correct measurements, the recipe was essentially mixing all of the ingredients together, before presenting it in the best possible manner. It didn’t take longer than thirty minutes, once I had cooled it in the small fridge underneath the station. Once it was completely finished and there was nothing left to do with it, I woke Jock up and showed him the end product.

“Wow, we’ve done well haven’ we!” He slapped me on the back with brute force that knocked me forward a couple of paces. “Looks disgusting but wild, I guess!” he added rudely.

Josephine, the course leader, met us at our station when she had seen everybody else, and met Jock with a smile, had a taste of the salad and closed her eyes, smiled at length and made noises that suggested satisfaction.

“This is phenomenal!” I smiled, and felt incredibly pleased with myself. Not only was I proud of the food, but proud that I had even come here, and relieved that I had chosen to not stay in the car earlier. I couldn’t wait to tell Julie.

“Well, yours is undoubtedly the best, no question about that.”

Jock nudged me to the side with his shoulder and barged “It was quite straightforward really, I think it’s all about the technique, and following the instructions very closely, and of course a little bit of sparkle!”

“That’s absolutely true, what was it, Jock?” Josephine nodded enthusiastically.

“Yes madam.” Jock said inappropriately, almost jokingly. Josephine smiled flirtatiously back at him.

“Well, Jock, this is a very fine piece of work for a first-timer!” She said loudly, and invited everyone else, all of the suits and skirts, to come and congratulate Jock on what he had done and look at, and taste the salad.

I got back into my car and banged my hands on the wheel several times, absolutely fuming at what Jock had done. I tensed back up again, and felt my hands becoming like claws as they had last week. It was only an hour ago that I had felt so free, and now all I could smell in the car was that Egyptian salad, that smelt so wild and exotic, but I pictured it in Jock’s hands. I drove home, muttering all the way.

“And he did that every week?” Julie asked, her fluffy slippers now up on the sofa, she was laid like one of my patients across the whole seat. Her tea was finished and resting on the side of the table, the smell of my whisky wafting up through the room as I continued with the story. She looked surprised, and disappointed in me also.

“Every week.” I said helplessly.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” Julie replied, gracefully, in a kind of ‘you silly boy’ way, though I knew deep down she would have been disappointed in my reaction.

“Well I was going to you see, but it was week four, which was Romania night, when I was about to, then I found his letter.” I explained.

She waited for me to continue, I stretched, and did.

Romania night was very much a big one in the exotic cooking class calendar. Everyone wanted to do well at Romania night. I knew of course that I could only do well in my own mind and from my own perspective, as the credit of other’s would never fall my way. We were addressed by Josephine, who never came to our station during the actual cooking process, only at the end, and were informed that tonight’s dish would be “Broccoli and Cauliflower soup with smoked meat and turkey breast.” To my surprise, Jock hadn’t arrived yet, he usually stumbled in around fifteen minutes late, having plonked his car in any available space. I smiled. Perhaps tonight would be the night that I would finally feel the full credit for the food I cooked.

The room was particularly hot on that night, and I unbuttoned the top of my shirt and rustled my hair several times, attempting to deal with the heat. My cooking was perfection once again, and I had that feeling of freedom as I diced with spices and created some of the wildest dishes out there. I had my usual sit down just before Josephine came round, and reflected. I felt a huge weight off my shoulders. Nothing could stop me now, she was on her way round, the soup looked stunning, tasted glorious, and the waft of the black pepper and a sense of autumn came over to the chair from the soup bowl. I rolled up my sleeves as it grew increasingly hotter. I was ready.

Josephine arrived at my station, and, without noticing Jock’s absence, bent her neck down with the usual jingling sound of all her jewellery, to the soup bowl, picking up a spoon and slowly tasting the contents of the bowl. She smiled.

“This is stunning!” She exclaimed excitedly. “Why I’ve never tasted such spice in my life, but it’s so controlled, I feel as though the soup takes me on a rollercoaster, but I’m so safe. It’s subtle but strong, and the flavour of the vegetables is blindingly good. I couldn’t cook like this.” She continued, shaking her head every now and again, emphasizing her amazement at the dish.

I nearly wept, and felt a sudden whack of relief hit me. I felt relaxed. In that moment, as she said those things, I didn’t think about my clients, I thought about me. I cannot describe to you the freedom I felt.

Just then, Jock stumbled over to the station, knocking my right shoulder as he went past. I felt the heat in the room rise up and my shoulders begun to tense again. A bead of sweat hit my bottom lip, partly from the room’s heat and partly from Jock being so close to me. He grunted, took a swig of the whisky, and made his plan very quickly.

“It wasn’t my best, Josie.” He said politely.

“Oh, Jock, this is stunning once again, a real masterpiece, I just don’t understand how you do it!” She looked away from me and back to him, addressing him like a lover might, though I couldn’t see what attraction there might be in such a disgusting man as Jock.

My hands turned to claws and I began to sweat uncontrollably, the heat rising in the room and every client I have ever had flooding back into my head, as I tense up and became visibly angry and aggressive, lashing out at a whisk that lay on the chopping board in front of me, arousing suspicion from both Jock and Josephine. I could not believe it. It was time I did something, time I stood up for myself and against this Jock; this was my work and he had no right to do such a thing.

Josephine walked away before I got the chance to start explaining to her what had been happening, but confronting Jock was a worthy second choice for my anger. I put my glasses on, breathed in and out several times, shook my head and began.

“You, You –“

Jock walked away with Josephine, I don’t know if he even heard me. I watched him smile from across the room, smiling and laughing with her about the cooking world and his talents. I even heard the words “Restaurant Partnership” being uttered. I had done all the work, everything was because of me. He didn’t deserve this. I noticed a small, crumpled piece of white paper on the floor. I bent down, splitting my jeans in the process and cursing the lord, before picking it up. The postage mark on it was “Seattle, U.S.” It was a letter addressed to Mr.