My memory is sketchy at best, and not to be relied on. The accident itself, I can’t remember. Mostly what I know about my past reveals itself in unexpected flashes to be forgotten a day or two later. I know I used to be a business consultant and a chef because there’s a box of trophies and awards I’ve won that say so. I don’t remember much.

I do know that I would get a job as a dishwasher, or whatever position was available so that I could learn the various techniques used for a particular dish and then I’d quit. I was always more interested in how to prepare the food so it tastes good, than in making it look good. After all, the only reason for attending culinary school in the first place was to learn how to put things together in a pleasing manner. I didn’t want to be a chef, I could make twice as much consulting, and cooking was simply my way of relaxing and relieving stress. 

After the accident, I can’t remember any of my recipes. But if I look up a basic recipe on the internet and begin preparing it, my memory will kick in and the result won’t be anything like the original. I stare at it as if it suddenly appeared from outer space, a more succulent, moister version of the original recipe. How did it get there? I don’t know, maybe it’s a muscle memory, a remnant of my past glory. I don’t have a clue, I can’t force it or I’ll get blinding headaches and see double. So I’ve begun to write down the recipes because my memory isn’t reliable – I forget the salt, or put it in twice or even three times. Once I even forgot the mashed potatoes. There they sat on the stove; whipped, creamy mounds, floating in butter and completely forgotten. The last guest had left nearly three hours ago.