Tongue

Начало книги

LARGE PUPILS, TINTED CHARCOAL and light brown. My eyes once gleamed of strong resolve, shined with tense sensuality. I can’t stand these eyes—weepy eyes reflected on the bottom of the copper pot, eyes expecting something from someone despite the knowledge that disappointment will be the result. Please don’t cry, I can’t cry. I close my eyes, open them. Now it’s all right. I flip over the pot and hang it on its hook. Thankfully my tears are gone. Now I will myself to reach over to the rotating shelf where I keep various oils, select the bottle of extra-virgin olive oil, and turn toward the nine students who have gathered here at seven P.M., their clothes slightly rumpled from the day.

Gathered here at Won’s Kitchen, which is outfitted with a ceramic stone pizza oven, refrigerator, dishwasher, coffeemaker, blender, mixer, food processor, electric rice cooker, gas stove. Assorted copper pots and stainless-steel pans hang from the ceiling in order of size, from large to medium to small. Along with glasses, a ventilation fan, food-waste compressor, electric grill, shelves, vent hood, heating station, island, backless stools, and a pot of vigorously boiling water.

Читать дальше →