Come on, don’t hit the back button. I promise that’s the only Vanilla Ice pun that’s going to happen today…probably.
I apologize to all of my readers for the incredibly long absence, but by the time winter went away, I got a job and started working 6 days a week in a hot-ass kitchen, even by kitchen standards. Summer is the super-duper busy season for us, so I’ve been in ‘working my ass off’ mode since Memorial Day. I’ve been in the “mulling it over in my head stage” of resuming the Passion for a month or two now, and with the added motivation of my recent Facebook pact with PerpetualPlotHole it’s time to get on my ass and get a post done. By the way, if you still haven’t checked out her blog, you should. It will brighten your day.
It’s nice to be making pizzas again, and I’ve been learning some pastas and generally improving my kitchen skillset, which has been stunted in a couple of key areas by the nature of the places I’ve worked. I had to have a very awkward conversation with my manager early on about the fact that it’s been ten years since the last time I had to actually prep anything, you know, with a knife, or cook fish on an actual char-grill, or fish at all really. He’s a great big bear of a hippie, and he’s one of the coolest bosses I’ve ever had. We went with another of the guys from work to a Love Canon show in Bristol back in July and had a great time.
I do miss my old job, I’ll be honest. I miss having interactions with the customers who were demographically close-enough to me most of the time that I could easily find common ground. I miss people actually recognizing the reference of my “I am the kwisatz haderach” t-shirt. On the upside, there are hot servers. Many of whom are also pretty rockin’ people separate from their eye-candy value which, bless them for being such good sports about the raucous kitchen harassment all the time. And before you get offended, please try to understand that it’s one of the few perks of being a cook to be able to harass servers, and there exists a very clear element of consent. The first time a person communicates discomfort with it, it stops and it stays stopped, and 99% of the time the touch barrier isn’t broken. We’re all fairly close just from working so damn much together, and there’s a certain level of what we will call respect (comprised at least 15% of desire to maintain employment in many cases) towards one another so it’s all just a way to help everyone stay positive and happy.
And now, I have to go to bed. Because I still live in the land of the doubles.