kitchens are dangerous
i’ve never been much of a cutter. instead, i burn myself. this is my way of getting to know the physical space of a restaurant kitchen: i bumble about, sentimentally clinging onto old habits and previously enjoyed repetitive motions, occasionally brushing against something very hot. it’s a bizarre way, but it is my way. i’m six days deep into my new position in a different kitchen, and i think i may have burned myself on enough things to have a good idea of where i’m not supposed to go. everything is different in a new kitchen. it takes no time at all to realize just how much of a robot you’ve become, even after a few short months in another space. the pans, for example, are a little more rustic, and so they don’t respond the same way to the previously prescribed flick of the wrist as they did in my former kitchen home. as a result, i often find my whites not so white, speckled with errant sauce that is initially quite hot. i think the moment all this accidental touching of hot things stops, i won’t be the new guy anymore.
