michigan.
first i'll begin by saying just how much i love the midwest.
there's something very humble and undisturbed about the suburbs i know. i grew up on brandywyne street in troy, michigan. i had a purple hand-me-down bike with training wheels, the kind that made it difficult to take fast turns, and our family had a tan and brown volkswagen van. at that time i had no understanding of doldrums. things were just as they were; tautological statements such as those were taken at face value with no judgement or skepticism. that's how it is to be full of blind youth: things are simple, and no one could convince you otherwise.
the line was hot tonight. the kitchen was understaffed, and between being called a saucy ass bitch, hootchie, woman, and other affectionate terms, i had a moment of realization. cooking is for the confused, masochistic basement members of society who need a subculture to call home. i just spent the evening sweating, cursing, slinging hot pans from one burner to the other, drinking with fellow cooks, chefs and veterans of the stove, who were as welcoming of a rookie like me as closest kin. there will never be a group of people as dynamic and troubled and joyful as the cooks i've come to know.
that being said, i'm ecstatic to have a week away from them. because the restaurant never really closes. you never really get away. i've started having dreams about the restaurant. they said it would happen. they said that i'd wake up at 4 in the morning in a panic that i had left the gas on, the hoods, forgotten to put something in the walk-in, forgotten to put that side of fish on ice. they said i'd have dreams about them in remote areas, dreams about being in the shit for hours on end, nightmares when the board is 15 feet long and your arms are just too short, or your hands are simply burned off at the wrist but the tickets continue to fire.
i know that even though i'll be home with family and friends, my mind at 5:30 each night will go back to that pre-game state of checking off all my backups, re-checking my mise-en-place, making sure my pans are ready, stocking hand-towels and sizzle plates. it's deep in my marrow now, this routine of digging in before the onslaught of service. and at 10:30 i'll be thinking of what's been depleted, i'll start forming a list of prep for the next day, and even though i may be sitting in a booth drinking coffee at 8:30pm in some slummy and beloved michigan diner, my mind will be occupied with the hands of the cooks i know, how they move, how they flash from one point to another in desperate artistry. or just desperation.
a whole week away from kitchen hell. it's unimaginable to me!
come see me. but don't ask me how work is. work is war, and i'd rather talk about you.
goodnight.
there's something very humble and undisturbed about the suburbs i know. i grew up on brandywyne street in troy, michigan. i had a purple hand-me-down bike with training wheels, the kind that made it difficult to take fast turns, and our family had a tan and brown volkswagen van. at that time i had no understanding of doldrums. things were just as they were; tautological statements such as those were taken at face value with no judgement or skepticism. that's how it is to be full of blind youth: things are simple, and no one could convince you otherwise.
the line was hot tonight. the kitchen was understaffed, and between being called a saucy ass bitch, hootchie, woman, and other affectionate terms, i had a moment of realization. cooking is for the confused, masochistic basement members of society who need a subculture to call home. i just spent the evening sweating, cursing, slinging hot pans from one burner to the other, drinking with fellow cooks, chefs and veterans of the stove, who were as welcoming of a rookie like me as closest kin. there will never be a group of people as dynamic and troubled and joyful as the cooks i've come to know.
that being said, i'm ecstatic to have a week away from them. because the restaurant never really closes. you never really get away. i've started having dreams about the restaurant. they said it would happen. they said that i'd wake up at 4 in the morning in a panic that i had left the gas on, the hoods, forgotten to put something in the walk-in, forgotten to put that side of fish on ice. they said i'd have dreams about them in remote areas, dreams about being in the shit for hours on end, nightmares when the board is 15 feet long and your arms are just too short, or your hands are simply burned off at the wrist but the tickets continue to fire.
i know that even though i'll be home with family and friends, my mind at 5:30 each night will go back to that pre-game state of checking off all my backups, re-checking my mise-en-place, making sure my pans are ready, stocking hand-towels and sizzle plates. it's deep in my marrow now, this routine of digging in before the onslaught of service. and at 10:30 i'll be thinking of what's been depleted, i'll start forming a list of prep for the next day, and even though i may be sitting in a booth drinking coffee at 8:30pm in some slummy and beloved michigan diner, my mind will be occupied with the hands of the cooks i know, how they move, how they flash from one point to another in desperate artistry. or just desperation.
a whole week away from kitchen hell. it's unimaginable to me!
come see me. but don't ask me how work is. work is war, and i'd rather talk about you.
goodnight.