It was just now that I recognized my hate for cooking. Traveling for days in my memories it started to appear, as slow as a flying bird with an injured wing. The smell was old like newspapers, it held in it a rotten odor of neglect and carelessness. Recalling the details was like looking at some vague incomprehensible shapes in the middle of the fog. The scent of this frustrating cooking class at the basement of my school tortured my stomach. It was as sharp as poison and not strong nor appealing, like a ghost hiding in the corner, teasing me constantly and unseen except by my little stormed soul. The aging teacher with her apron smelling of dirt agitated me. Calling this period a life lesson class was ironically killing me. Now that I feel invaded with this dusty grey patched scent I no longer wonder why I run away from any kitchen work.