Page 1 of Can't Kiss the Chef

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Lola

Fourteen hours, seventeen minutes and forty-seven seconds. That’s how much longer I have to wait before I can pack my car and start the scenic drive back to my comfortable little three-bedroom apartment in Westvale, New York.

Disappointment has been the theme of the summer.

Before the start of the second semester last year, I decided to pursue the career that I’ve always dreamed of. It took some convincing but once my signature confirmed the change from pre-vet to business entrepreneurship, with plans to go to culinary school after, I felt so much lighter. I felt like myself again.

This last lecture starts off as they all have, with how disappointed my parents are that I didn’t consult them about my decision to change my major. The funny thing is they hated that I wanted to be an “animal doctor,” as they so lovingly refer to it.

You see, my parents are both highly respected doctors. My Mom is an oncologist who works with breast cancer patients, and my dad is a neurosurgeon. They have always pushed me into advanced classes and extracurricular activities, giving me little choice but to follow in their footsteps.

When I told them I was going to major in biology, they couldn’t have been happier. When I told them I wanted to be a veterinarian, they didn’t even try to hide their disappointment. Eventually, they came around, knowing how much my days at the barn meant to me as a kid.

My tattoos and short black hair might not scream “horse girl” but from my first lesson, riding was my solace.

A full-on screaming match exploded the night I told my parents. You would have thought I told them I was going to work for my estranged great-uncle’s organized crime business in New Jersey. His illegal business dealings are one of the reasons why image and careers mean so much to my parents.

So my family breakdown goes like this. My Nonna, my mom’s mom, was one of seven who came to America from Italy during their childhood. Like most immigrant families, they struggled at times, and money was tight. My Nonna’s older brothers took sketchy jobs from even sketchier families, and that is how the divide in my family was born– good versus evil– moral high grounds they use to look down on others for.

The kicker is that we all spend holidays together and just pretend that we are one big happy family. I love those days because I don’t feel like the black sheep of the family.

“Lola, are you listening to us?” Mom’s voice is stern and one most people would not want to push back against.

Me… I’m used to it, so I just give it right back to her.

“Yes, Mom. You have made it perfectly clear that if I don’t live my life according to your life model, you’ll take away everything that I care about.”

She lets out a huff and then leaves the room without even throwing me her signature eye roll.

The glowing screen of the phone tucked into my lap shows another five minutes have clocked down.

So close.

My dad sits next to me at the kitchen table. He thinks I should follow the path he laid out for his children, but he carries himself in a way that makes me feel like I can talk to him and he will listen to what I have to say.

“You’re just so smart, honey,” he says before taking a sip of his evening tea. “Are you sure you want to waste that in a kitchen?”

Gripping the bottom of my seat, I inhale deeply before trying to explain to him for what feels like the thousandth time this summer why I want to go into a field where I’ll waste mytalentin the kitchen.

“It’s not wasting my talents, Dad. You use yours to heal people physically. I want to use mine to heal people spiritually. That’s what a good meal can do. It can bring people together and help people reconnect. It helps generations stay connected. They might not have anything else in common other than using the recipes that have been passed down from one generation to another,” I pause, making sure he is looking me in the eye before I say this last part one more time before this summer ends. “I am healing people, just differently than you expected me to.”

My dad gives me a slight nod, but before he can say anything, my brother’s head pops through the door that leads to the garage.

“Hey, Lola, everything is ready to set up the horse trailer. Can you watch to make sure I’m doing it right?”

A strong hand lands on my shoulder. My dad gives it a reassuring squeeze like he gets it but doesn’t give me the permission I crave to keep my major. It would be nice to feel the support of my parents every once in a while. I flash him an unsure smile before patting him on the shoulder a couple of times.

For the first two and a half years of my college experience, I was enrolled in a major that I liked but didn’t love. When I saw my roommate and best friend Ivy take the bull by the horns and start living her life, it was too tempting not to do the same.

Ivy’s parents both died when she was eight. Her sister dropped everything going on in her life to raise her. Ivy thought she was indebted to her sister and only focused on school and basketball. Her sister and I called our roommate, Indy, before the start of last school year and set up an intervention for Ivy. Between that and being forced to supervise her now boyfriend–then mortal enemy–at Westvale’s animal shelter, she learned that you can go out, live and still be successful.

Watching Ivy become truly happy gave me the courage I needed to change my major, even though I knew my parents were going to go nuclear. So far, they haven’t gone through with any of their threats, but I have a feeling that might change when I don’t change my major when I get back to school.

After slipping on my sneakers, I go to my Suburban, which is parked in the driveway. The weather has started to cool, marking the end of summer in Philadelphia.

“You ready for tomorrow?” I ask my brother as I hand him the wrench he needs to start the process of hooking up the trailer.

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