When I was sixteen I worked in a Greek restaurant. I loved it. It was probably one of the greatest learning experiences that I ever had regarding food. I would say that everything I cook has a Greek flair to it. Maybe not in flavor profile but I certainly try to cook everything with that bold confidence I learned in that restaurant. Confidence is not the only thing that Greek restaurant owners have. They usually also have incredibly good-looking sons. One night it was slow in the kitchen and very busy in the bar so I was put to work slicing limes for the bar. I had to slice hundreds of them. It was boring and a little monotonous. The knives had been sharpened that day and were nearly sharp enough to cut you if you only just touched the blade. So I was slicing away and who should walk into the kitchen but my bosses oldest son. He was far more enticing that lime I was slicing. In the moment when I was distracted I accidentally cut my finger with the blade rather than a lime and I didn’t notice until the lime juice got in there. The knife was so sharp I nearly cut the tip of my finger right off. My boss rushed around the kitchen frantically, wondering if she should take me to the hospital or not, leaving her son in charge of my first aid. Although this does kind of sound like a scenario in a teen romance movie I assure you that no romantic sparks flew that night. I was so embarrassed I could barely function, flip-flopping between trying to act like it wasn’t a big deal and freaking out a little because my finger tip was now a bleeding flap. He certainly was not charmed by my shy, clumsy, damsel in distress routine. I think he was pretty relieved when he didn’t have to hang out with me anymore. All I can say is “Damn you Hollywood for filling my head with such unreasonable expectations!” The only thing I got out of that was an embarrassing story and a scar on my finger.