Here I was, working my very stressful job- miserable and restless. I had just got that promotion. The fat paycheck came with it. But so did it include the cost of my sanity.. they never tell us that, see. And don't mistake this for just any boring profession. I am a chef. And I had done a fair bit of my time in this hot mess I now call home. I love how chef jackets don't get me worried about what I should wear tomorrow. And I love how everyone is so tough but also so marshmellow-y inside. That if they see a fellow cook drowning in work, it doesn't matter that he came in at 5 AM, he'll finish up with him, scrub it all down, and leave together arms around shoulders; only to be back 5 hours later. Now that's family, and friend, and brother from another mother, and shoulder to cry on in the walk-in refrigerator, and the partner to bitch about the boss, and the person who's got your back when there's a pesky wait staff wanting to pick a fight, and the listener- who listens to the personal things- about the blood ties we call family: where it's almost always going down.. girlfriend/boyfriend/wife/husband/child.. It's never right. Neither is it in the kitchen. We're always too tired, too sleepy, too depressed, too run down, too everything. So then you ask, why do you do it? Well there's a long list, and I will attempt to spill the beans in the most justifiable manner I can. But there's a disclaimer. These words will never come close to that feeling of why it is the most special job in the world.
See you in the next post..