The Seven Year Slip

by Ashley Poston

“I hate this story so much,” James groaned, pulling his hand down his face in agony. “He was asked—Isa, what was he asked?” She took another chip from the bag. “He was asked what he was doing.” “I was following directions,” James mumbled. “He says—to this super-stodgy chef, by the way—‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m beatin’ it.’ Elbow deep in dough. Flour on his face. Yeast spilled across the counter. Using—what the fuck were you using? A wooden spoon? He was pure chaos.” Isa cackled. “And the teacher just looked at him and said, ‘Whisk, you whisk it.’ ” James pointed out, “To be fair, I’d never seen a Danish whisk in my life. Then Isa decided that we’d all go out drinking that night and wound up at a tattoo shop and”—he shrugged—“that’s it. That’s the story.” To which Miguel and Isa both showed me the utensils behind their left ears, too—a spatula and a ladle.