They say that once you pick your poison there is no turning back. There’s a rush that can only be compared to what is the first sip of morning coffee when it hits just right. You feel so alive you’re convinced you can see sounds. The fog of sleep clears and suddenly you are wide awake.
Picturing the sounds of a dinner rush, the ticket machine coughing out order after order after order. Being neck deep in t-bone steaks and sauces, swimming in the murky waters of an impromptu conference and God forbid that the chef at the pass is in a bad mood.
Two counts short of blood, guts and all out war.
Careful you don’t slip on the oil, grease, sauces and possibly the last bits of sanity you had left.
Step away from the pastry chef, he looks like he will cut you. Literally .You ate the last of his cookies.
The burners are hot, the ovens are cooking you to a crisp every time someone opens them and they belch out what seems like all the hot air that ever was.
You’re in luck, the kitchen hood is working. So there’s a steady hum that drowns out every sound except the chef’s voice and your calls of “yes chef”
What happened to the TV chefs that sold you on the job? The super shiny and super new equipment. Enough time to slowly explain what you are doing with a little flick of the wrist, impress with a little alcohol, a little fire and you have a flaming pan to convince anybody that doesn’t know any better that you can cook.
It doesn’t really matter though.
As you crawl into bed with sore feet and a back that feels like it had a go in a mincer, a blunt rusty one at that, the entire house as quiet as death and you question your life choices because in the recesses of your mind, the sound of the ticket machine, the chef’s voice rings in your ears like a noon day chime and the adrenalin rush your constant companion.
You wonder if you are insane.
Well and truly, you might be.
Your hands look like a living example of death by a thousand cuts.
You don’t burn. You play with fire and sometimes you lose.
You work enough hours to know that nine hours is really, nine plus however long it takes to get the job done.
Your back and feet can tell tales that would put shame to war cries, the haka and the screams you heard in final destination.
It is only the hottest flames that can make sure you never burn again. This is what makes you an inferno. Super nova.
You fall fast asleep. Shift starts same time tomorrow.
Another day, a million new ways to test if you are really, well and truly fireproof.
Article by: Kimberly Riziki