I made sure my apron was tight, but not too tight. I reached up and pinched the edges of my tall, crisp hat down so it sat firmly on my head. Brushing back a strand of loose hair, I rocked forward on my tiptoes so my face rested high above the pot of brewing potato soup. I waited until I felt the steam waft up and kiss my chin then inhaled through my nose, deeply and slowly.

My eyes flew open, and I leaned back, startled. No way, I thought. I leaned in again and repeated my process, until the smell hit my nose.

Impossible. There was no smell.

I looked at my soup critically, checking to make sure the burner was on and that I had put an onion in my soup. I had.

I snatched up my favorite testing spoon with my name engraved beautifully on the front, Chef Pendleton, and gouged it into the soup. It came out with a steaming potato right in the center of and, after waiting a little for it to cool, thrust it into my mouth, my eyes searching as my brain tried to make out each flavor.

But there was no flavor!

Frustrated, slapped the spoon back on the counter with a loud CLANK, trying to process what had just happened, and why my body wasn’t reacting to its normal duties. I tried to ignore the inevitable, but after more thinking things through, and coming to the crushing reality of what could happen to the Pendleton Diner if people found this out, only one thing was left, creeping in the shadows of my mind.

COVID.