I think it’s a bad sign when, last night, the three of us girls were walking toward our door after a long night and, in the tree next to our door, we hear a squabble between two birds. Something drops from the tree. A dove. A dove fell to the ground and died in front of us. A bird of peace died in front of us. This is a BAD sign. It is also an apt summary of the drama of the kitchen I am working in and my feelings for it.