Cooking was, in The Chef’s opinion, the oldest art form unique to the human race. How exactly cooking came about was unknown. Perhaps some primeval ancestor to humans had found something edible in the wake of a wildfire and began to search out those fire roasted meals? Or perhaps fire making was discovered first, as a means of holding back the cold and dark of both winter and night, and then cooking food followed? In the end, it didn’t really matter for The Chef, though that didn’t mean they didn’t enjoy pondering the question from time to time.

“A pinch of salt,” The Chef murmured as they worked over the hot stove. The sauce was still slightly under seasoned.

There were two saucepans on the stove, both simmering gently at the back of the stove. A frying pan sat at the front, sizzling oil spitting around strips of meat. A loaf of bread was slowly baking beneath it all in the oven. The smell of it all was intoxicating. The sharpness of the sauces, the heavy scent of the meat, and the buttery smells of the bread mingled together and The Chef knew this would be one of their best meals yet.

As The Chef stirred in the additional salt to the saucepan on the left, they wondered at how people had determined what foods they could eat. There were so many things that various animals could eat, but that would be toxic to other animals. Cinnamon, for example, is a highly popular spice for humans, but will kill so many other creatures. Cocoa as well. Early humans might have been able to identify some plants as being toxic due to their similarity to other known toxic plants. A sort of early plant family identification. Even that wasn’t perfect though. Tomatoes and potatoes were both in the nightshade family yet neither were dangerous to humans. Eggplant was also in the nightshade family.

The Chef liked the nightshade family. Telling people they were eating foods from the nightshade family, carefully prepared so they would have no adverse effects, brought a smile to their face and wide-eyed looks of shock and admiration from diners. Only a few ever caught on as they ate their spaghetti or whatever else had been prepared for them.

Taking all of those raw ingredients and transforming them into something so unrecognizable from their individual components was a special sort of alchemy. It may not be as flashy as turning lead into gold or granting immortality, but it was powerful nonetheless. People bonded over food. Nations were born thanks to food. Wars were fought over food. Generation after generation was raised and molded by the food they were given, or denied, as their various circumstances may have allowed.

The chef stepped out of their reverie and checked on the bread. The crust was golden and the far edges were just starting to shift towards a darker brown. It was done. Carefully, they pulled the loaf out of the oven and set it aside to cool. Some bakers preferred to allow their breads to cool more before serving since cutting into such a hot loaf tended to mangle the bread, but The Chef knew that with a sharp knife, skill, and some patience, slicing and serving such a loaf was well worth the risk.

A careful prod with a fork told The Chef that the meat was done cooking.  Taking it off the heat and transferring it to the plate took just moment, and then The Chef was back to the sauces. They each looked identical and, with the exception of one ingredient, they were. A quick taste of the sauce on the left revealed it to be perfectly seasoned. So much of cooking was waiting, but when the waiting was done it was all a rush to get it all plated and served before any of it over cooked or cooled down too much.

Taking a ladle from the hanging rack over their head, The Chef dipped into the sauce on the right and poured it over and around the meat on the plate. They then took a sharp bread knife and, with long fluid strokes, cut slowly through the loaf. Steam plumed up from where the crust was opened and the kitchen filled with the rich scent of the bread. The Chef allowed themselves a deep breath to relish the moment before adding the sliced bread to its own plate.

At last, The Chef picked up the plates and carried them out to the dining room. It was a long and narrow space, with paintings along each wall and sculptures in the corners. Marble slabs, cut into intricate designs and then inlaid with golden filigree, covered the floor. The ceiling arched high above and was accented by plaster works in the shape of tree boughs and ivy. The center of the room was dominated by the rich, hand carved, wood table that was flanked by a dozen similarly hand carved chairs.

Only one chair was occupied.

“Good evening,” The Chef said to the chair’s occupant.

“Yes, I suppose,” was the response. It was a bored, almost tired voice and there was not even a glance towards the Chef, instead remaining fixed upon one of the room’s paintings; a landscape done of the exterior grounds.

“Tonight’s meal of chicken and nightshade sauce,” The Chef began but was cut off almost at once.

“I’m done with you,” came the cutting dismissal, “Be gone with you, now and for always!”

The Chef knew better than to attempt any further conversation and so they set the meal down and withdrew. This was indeed their last evening preparing meals in this house. It had been made quite clear to all the staff that their services were no longer wanted and so, throughout the day, they had wrapped up whatever task they’d been working on and then left. The Chef had insisted on preparing this one final meal and now done with that, could go.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise to any of them. The situation in the house had been growing more difficult in recent years, and the past several months had seen an even steeper descent. There was nothing for it now. The Chef was already packed and had their bags ready and waiting by the back door of the kitchen. As they made their way there, The Chef paused one last time to drink in the sights and smells of this place, this one place in all the world that they loved. There would be other kitchens, but this one had been special.

“Oops, almost forgot,” the Chef said to the empty room.

They hurried over to the stove where the two saucepans still sat. The Chef took the one on the right, carried it over to the sink, turned on the water, and slowly poured out its contents. They then washed the pan, dried it, and hung it back in its place. They repeated those steps with the ladle as well with the exception that they placed it into the remaining saucepan.

The Chef then cut a thin slice of bread for the road and walked out of the kitchen, turning off the lights behind them as they went.