Gemotions

The fluorescent lights of the restaurant seemed to buzz louder than usual, a chorus of irritating insects. I pulled at the collar of my chef's jacket. The review, a venomous dissection of my latest tasting menu, sat crumpled in my pocket, burning a hole through my shirt. I wanted to *do* something, anything. I found myself pacing the small apartment I shared with my cat, Mittens, who blinked at me unconcerned from the top of the bookshelf. I opened the fridge, took out some ingredients, and just started throwing them into a pot, not bothering with measurements, just wanting to chop and stir and *move*.