It's almost midnight. My hands smell of garlic. I've got the beginnings of a headache coming on. And the husband is tucked up in bed, far too deep into REM to dole out revitalising kisses. But none of that matters. Because, despite it all, inside I'm jumping with joy. Why?
I'll tell you why. 'Coz Chefette is now officially working as a chef, that's why. I just finished my first ever service as a hired gun.
After ever so much hmming and hawing last weekend, debating the pros and cons of the three job offers ad nauseum, I decided to go for the part-time role at the little Italian place in the neighbourhood. Which got a very good write-up in the Guardian last Saturday, by the way. (Assuming the preceding link works, it's the second restaurant featured in the article.)
Tonight I worked on the hot and cold starters, and did some mise-en-place for the head chef. To summarise the highlights: (a) I didn't have any major screwups; (b) the head chef said the pesto I made "was really good"; (c) all of the plates I sent out came back clean from the dining room.
Now all I have to do is get faster at plating up orders.
Sweet dreams all.