a foot in the kitchen
who knew at four forty five this morning when the alarm coerced me to attention how much this burn on my forearm would sting as I sit here aching in my chair, ankles swollen, a full arc of the sun later. the cold, wet darkness of my morning commute was both disheartening—in an ominous, foreboding sort of way—and at the same time invigorating, as I used the empty smoky mountain blacktop like blinders on a horse in the infantry. eyes forward, mind like a laser beam, I found myself repeating various phrases: you’re alert, you’re sharp, your ears are wide open, you can do this, you can take every instruction, you can remember every detail. phrases, in my early morning mind, proved a few syllables too much as simple words replaced them in short order: alert, sharp, quick, ready.
my fingers are not enjoying the digital dexterity required to type this entry. the tendons and nerves are tired both. the skin is flush with burns from the dozens of piping hot foodstuffs I had but one choice to bare handle. there’s a thin slice—like a thick paper cut— that runs from the heel of my palm to the its’ center. my right shoulder and right neck are standing upright, reaching towards my right ear—a side effect of the hundreds and hundreds of push-pulls I accumulated on the meat slicer before lunch service.
I wear my white chef’s coat and pinstriped apron with both the pride of an ardent foodist as well as the bashfulness of a person who absolutely knows they performed none of the labor and gave none of the sacrificial bloodsweat the kitchen g-d’s typically require for entry to its’ hallowed bowels. in between knife strokes, smoky eyes, and a bucket of ice I stopped for a second to recognize that not only was I living out one of my own dreams, but I was living out countless people’s dreams.
for years I’ve watched the epically beautiful flow of a kitchen humming towards synchronicity and day dreamed myself into the action. the tickets coming in, the chef at the podium jerking and gesturing his baton at the orchestra, and the cooks pirouetting and waltzing from burner to smoker to fryer to sink. a few years prior, as I strained with focus on the floor of the ny stock exchange, I was constantly convincing myself that the rapid-fire logic required to perform on the floor of the exchange was the same skill set required in the kitchen.
presently, it’ three days into my foray as a member of the kitchen staff at blackberry farm’s main house kitchen. I type at a quarter to eight with a weight in my eyes usually reserved for several more laps around the track of the clock. I look back at my former self's assumptions of can-do-itness and question my untested confidence. it’s a hard life, a life in the kitchen, and it’s only taken me three days to understand that in completely new ways. lessons and skills for my body and mind are being accrued in leaps and bounds, and the numbness that fills my body right now is spiked with content. and tomorrow, as I walk out the door into the damp quiet which sits on these foothills each day, i’ll make sure to smile as i cruise towards the great smokies in a fresh white coat.
I'm High On Cooking
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