War Wounds
I attended the Art Institute of Dallas for Culinary Science. I loved every moment, scrubbing pans, dicing onions, being yelled at, classroom time, timed meals - I loved it all. To this day I use those skills and lessons. I back into the timing of meals, I calculate food costs, I organize my work area, I make sauces from scratch and memory, I clean up after myself and I love it. Briefly I helped out Pam and Jeff in their B&B after the chef injured himself hoisting beans from another kitchen's oven - that's a sin my friend and karma. What a rush, food orders coming in, a grill filled with meat, veggies to finish, risotto to complete - it was a culinary symphony and I remember towards the end of dinner service as my eyes glazed over, Pam came in very calmly and said, "Just 3 more tops and you're golden." I remember thinking, "I'm going to sit my ass on the floor and sob." I finished those 3 tops, yanked the bandanna from my head and headed into the dining room to drink with whomever was left. It was my second trip to the dining room that night, the first was to redeliver a plate of salmon that wasn't prepared correctly. Taking responsibility for your own actions is paramount.
Two memories from the Art Institute that stand out were the two injuries I sustained. First was in Chef Otto's class. Chef Otto was a flirty older Mr. Whipple type of teacher. He yelled, he put up with NO nonsense, he expected perfection and accepted nothing less. Enrolling as an adult gave me a leg up on the pierced, tattooed, lost young souls who hadn't a clue what to do with their lives. At the time I was leading projects in Houston from Dallas, traveling all over and raising two small children - my cup runneth over. I also was there to exceed, I absorbed like a sponge, listened, took notes, 4.0 all the way.
Every evening at the start of class, someone would ask, "What's for family meal?" This was a total setup. We wanted to eat, we were Culinary students for Christ's sake, we coveted food. The chef'/teacher would him and haw, but they also suffered the same plight, they wanted to eat. Invariably we'd have rice pilaf, it was a staple and something I can make in my sleep and serve weekly accompanied by whatever else we were doing. Usually cornbread was fare game and whatever vegetables were turning bad.
One fine evening at the end of class, we were doing the mad clean up, scrubbing every pan, rinsing, sanitizing and like good little troopers, we had a system. It was reminiscent of the Three Stooges in that every one's timing had to be perfect or someone was going to get hurt. I was grabbing sanitized cutting boards and moving them from the sink to their drying stations and the dufus with the bull ring in his nose in front of me was moving them from rinse, to sanitize. Somewhere along the line his timing fouled and I heard a loud crack, like a bat hitting a baseball. He split my eyebrow clean open. The look on his pierced face was awful, I thought for a moment he'd faint. I felt my eyebrow and the sticky blood pouring out and said, "Man, did you hear the noise that made?" It was loud. Chef Otto came over and said, "You don't need stitches, but if it'll make you feel better, you can lead him around campus by his nose ring."
The second incident was during 'end of semester cleaning' it's as awful as you can imagine. Scrub everything, absolutely everything, top, bottom, under, inside, out, around the back and through the middle. This was another Chef, younger, cooler, still yelled at us like dogs though. He looked at me and said, "Up on the ovens." Up I clamored to the top of the ovens to scrub the stainless. I began scouring and as time wore on I had to move forward on the oven. I grabbed with both hands and pulled myself forward. I didn't move, but my left thumb slit clear open. I knew the second it happened. I grabbed it with the other hand and started, "Chef, chef, chef, chef, chef, chef." When he whipped around, he knew it was a doozy. "Is it bad?" he asked, "Not sure, I can't look." He looked concerned and more like a person than a chef. "Get down, let me see." I scampered down and opened the paper towel turning my head away while simultaneously showing him the wound. "It's not deep but we can cauterize it." I nearly fainted, "Chef, please, it's bad enough it's cut, please don't burn it too!" Why I didn't tell him to taking a flying F*@3 through a rolling donut is beyond me, but I held my respect for him. He said it didn't appear that I needed stitches, but to sit out the cleaning. Oh no way, I wrapped my hand up in towels and got right back to scrubbing. I think that earned his respect and more important that of my classmates.
I was burned, cut, burned, burned and sliced with a boning knife that still gives me shivers, but I loved it all. Someday I'll return to that capacity in some form or fashion. I am a recreational chef now, but I dream of the day will injury myself in the field of professional culinary again!
Two memories from the Art Institute that stand out were the two injuries I sustained. First was in Chef Otto's class. Chef Otto was a flirty older Mr. Whipple type of teacher. He yelled, he put up with NO nonsense, he expected perfection and accepted nothing less. Enrolling as an adult gave me a leg up on the pierced, tattooed, lost young souls who hadn't a clue what to do with their lives. At the time I was leading projects in Houston from Dallas, traveling all over and raising two small children - my cup runneth over. I also was there to exceed, I absorbed like a sponge, listened, took notes, 4.0 all the way.
Every evening at the start of class, someone would ask, "What's for family meal?" This was a total setup. We wanted to eat, we were Culinary students for Christ's sake, we coveted food. The chef'/teacher would him and haw, but they also suffered the same plight, they wanted to eat. Invariably we'd have rice pilaf, it was a staple and something I can make in my sleep and serve weekly accompanied by whatever else we were doing. Usually cornbread was fare game and whatever vegetables were turning bad.
One fine evening at the end of class, we were doing the mad clean up, scrubbing every pan, rinsing, sanitizing and like good little troopers, we had a system. It was reminiscent of the Three Stooges in that every one's timing had to be perfect or someone was going to get hurt. I was grabbing sanitized cutting boards and moving them from the sink to their drying stations and the dufus with the bull ring in his nose in front of me was moving them from rinse, to sanitize. Somewhere along the line his timing fouled and I heard a loud crack, like a bat hitting a baseball. He split my eyebrow clean open. The look on his pierced face was awful, I thought for a moment he'd faint. I felt my eyebrow and the sticky blood pouring out and said, "Man, did you hear the noise that made?" It was loud. Chef Otto came over and said, "You don't need stitches, but if it'll make you feel better, you can lead him around campus by his nose ring."
The second incident was during 'end of semester cleaning' it's as awful as you can imagine. Scrub everything, absolutely everything, top, bottom, under, inside, out, around the back and through the middle. This was another Chef, younger, cooler, still yelled at us like dogs though. He looked at me and said, "Up on the ovens." Up I clamored to the top of the ovens to scrub the stainless. I began scouring and as time wore on I had to move forward on the oven. I grabbed with both hands and pulled myself forward. I didn't move, but my left thumb slit clear open. I knew the second it happened. I grabbed it with the other hand and started, "Chef, chef, chef, chef, chef, chef." When he whipped around, he knew it was a doozy. "Is it bad?" he asked, "Not sure, I can't look." He looked concerned and more like a person than a chef. "Get down, let me see." I scampered down and opened the paper towel turning my head away while simultaneously showing him the wound. "It's not deep but we can cauterize it." I nearly fainted, "Chef, please, it's bad enough it's cut, please don't burn it too!" Why I didn't tell him to taking a flying F*@3 through a rolling donut is beyond me, but I held my respect for him. He said it didn't appear that I needed stitches, but to sit out the cleaning. Oh no way, I wrapped my hand up in towels and got right back to scrubbing. I think that earned his respect and more important that of my classmates.
I was burned, cut, burned, burned and sliced with a boning knife that still gives me shivers, but I loved it all. Someday I'll return to that capacity in some form or fashion. I am a recreational chef now, but I dream of the day will injury myself in the field of professional culinary again!
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