Recipe Jotting at 2AM? Get a Life

Okay really...it's 2AM on a now, Sunday morning.  


Why am I still up?  Out of all things, I'm looking up recipes that I can tweak to my own liking.  This is a fat girl, please pause moment.  I've been invited to do really cool 26 year old things like going outside and getting wasted at a dope party and if I played my cards right, guaranteed to go to someone's after party.  I was even supposed to do the intimate thing and have a date night with my husband.  One of my friends came in from the UK and I just saw and heard the message at the last minute to go to an open mic.  


Oh no...what do I do for pure entertainment?  Read articles on New York Times about guess what?  Food.  Use my handy dandy journal and write down what?  Recipes.  Geez, either I'm a nerd ahead of my time or I need a damn life.  


Well, no sense in complaining about it, right?  Read this article about Starbucks' employees locking down the bathrooms in desperation not to clean it.  Made me chuckle a bit.  At a time back in the land called 2005 and 2006, I used to work as a Barista.  In fact, I was such a workaholic, I took openings at several spots.  My home store was next door to Bad Boy and I'd be there before the crack of dawn to open.  Too bad there were countless psychopaths who loved talking with me.  This was pre-locs, pre-culinary school and pre-baby weight.  Geez, that's when I was warm, fuzzy and naive.  


Anyway, I remember my regulars:  a man who came in with a jogging suit and stand there at 5:55am for his Tall Skim Vanilla Latte with a Butter Croissant.  Dedication I tell you.  Then, it would follow up with another person who wanted this Tall Soy Peppermint Latte.  She ordered this every other day that it made me interested in trying the drink out.  Wasn't bad at all.  Unfortunately, around morning rush, I remember this one particular day, a homeless man came in with a stack of newspapers and had a cup of coffee.  He didn't come to my register nor did I make his drink.  Perhaps someone felt bad for him.  Besides, I was in the theater district in the heart of 54th and Broadway.  Tourists mostly have a conscious; typical NYers would give him some change or tell him to go look for a job.  It had to be close to two hours because I remember being told by my store manager to take a break.  I have this tendency to want to potty right during break but I was greeted to a nice red "Occupied" stamp on the door.  Someone's in the bathroom.


Just my luck, there's another Starbucks down the block.  Used it, enjoyed my ten minute break on my derriere and ran back to my store.  This guy was still on the toilet.  Really dude?  How much did Starbucks make you go?  Forty mins later, my supervisor demanded that this homeless guy leave the bathroom.  


We were whiplashed by this alarming funk.  Oh dear, it was horrific.  Smelled like a clusterfuck of a dog tag teaming dead chickens from behind while going through an R. Kelly moment.  Didn't get it?  Just think about it, smoke a cigarette and call me in the morning.  This guy had the audacity to forget where the toilet was and I spent most of the afternoon trying to figure out why would the toilet play Trick or Treat with this guy and fool him into thinking that toilet was on the wall and who really is going to clean this up.  For 9.00/hr plus tips.  I don't know man.  


My supervisor walked past me and asked my coworker.  Bless his heart and his nose.  I would have puked and gave up my job that day. All I thought to myself is...no way man.  No effin way am I cleaning that up.   I salute those brave Starbucks' employees that said hell to the nawl on cleaning up that slop.  The things that food service workers endure man...y'all just don't understand.  


Thank God I'm in the damn kitchen right now and I pray to the man above that don't get an irate supervisor who gets off on sending me in a garbage bin with rats to clean out.  Please God...no flying cockaroaches and rats.  Please.  I'm a woman (the very few times I would pull out the W card).

Resident Fat Girl Checking In

Hi, I'm Latoya.  I'm 26, in culinary school and in a cyanide euphoric and slightly schizophrenic state of happiness.  

Just imagine.  I wake up every morning, five days a week, practically to the same schedule.  Alarm kicks in at 5:55am.  SMACK!  Buzzer kicks out for 10 minutes. SMACK! Just 10 more minutes baby.  SMACK! Gawdamnit, didn't I just say 10 more minutes and like an abusive relationship, I apologize, it cries and I fill it with empty promises that I will not do it again but we know that I'm going to do this until I get tired of the yelling.  What's a person to do when they're tired?  Get the hell up, wash your ass and carry on your day.  

So, that's what I do.  My day starts anywhere between 6:30 - 6:45am and if I'm a serious procrastinator, minutes to 8am where I'm going through the constant, "oh shit" moment.  Here's the ritual...stretch, scream, mutter in frustration, kiss my husband and possibly blocked because my son is the human alarm clock who lays over both of us.  He's the all knowing morning birth control.  As a young woman, I just want to roll over to my husband's freshly baked goods but my son makes sure that this doesn't happen.  Why?  Because he's 4 1/2, enjoys walking in on his parents during awkward moments and too young to understand that mommy's schedule is so chaotic that we crave intimacy at the wee hours of the morning.  Off to brushing my teeth with no breakfast in my system.  Pop 3 pills:  One multivitamin, one acidophillus tablet and one vitamin B complex...my levels have been horrific.

Since culinary school, I managed to get three cases of food poisoning, four viral infections, scarlet fever and five ER trips in nine months.  Can we say that my immunity sucks.  So again, no breakfast, already washed my booty but I have to think twice on whether I did it or not and in pursuit of finding mediocre to decent clothing to put on.  Hey, who cares...I'll be wearing my bright white chef jacket and checkered pants with the matching black non slip sneakers all day.  My puffy hat will lay over my heavy locks, which will one day become an inconvenience in a high speed kitchen and I will do a nail inspection, as I do every other morning.  Fresh white tall socks...can't get burned by hot water or some unforeseen but expected accident.  Check my knife kit, inspect my knives, pastry tips armed and loaded and my side towels are in the bag.  Backpack loaded and would make Dora the Explorer look for another job.  She knows nothing about my mission.  Dora and Sesame Street couldn't handle my pressure or have to deal with angry NYC commuters on a train.

7:55am:  Kiss my son, kiss my hubby for the fourth time, kiss my kid again.  Cry silently in my head and tell myself, "today's going to be a great day and I'll love it when I get there" but I miss my family.  I miss my social life but welcome to the real world big girl.  Big girls don't cry, especially in my industry.  I'm a chef in training.  Crying in the kitchen is weak.  Sure, we're emotional but it's accompanied with curse words, pounding knives, sharp objects, tortured meat and uptight patissiers in training who are determined to show you that baking isn't for pussies.  I'm out the door by 8:10.  Husband walked out at 8:05 so we can meet at our secret location:  the corner store.  If he's on time, I'll see him after I pick up my usual two bottles of water and banana.  These bottles will get me through two thirds of my day and I need to drink half of my body weight.  

He meets me.  Kisses me passionately.  Walks to the train station talking about photography, my other mistress.  Wait, is my camera in my backpack?  Of course.  What can I build this crazy portfolio with?  On the train by 8:20.  8:25 train will get me fired by my work study job.  Ha, go figure.  Work study job at 26 years old but everyone starts from somewhere, even if you were making over 50K three years ago.  He leaves four stops later from the train.  iPod love:  Telepopmusik, No Doubt, Marilyn Manson...someone scream and sing to me while I'm molested and fondled by these nasty commuters.  They give me the same strange looks every morning.  Perhaps it's the checkered pants, locked hair, evil look of sleepiness and my chained bracelet with the spikes.  I'm a sore look.

Off at 14th Street.  It's 8:55.  If I am lucky, I can take the bus one stop.  If not, I'll walk like a mad woman through people to make it in two minutes to my job.  Whew...made it to the bus.  Ring the bell.  Off the bus.  At work.  My supervisor's a funny dude but like I've told many people:  You have to be slightly off to be in this career.  Perhaps, daddy issues?  Never accepted?  "My family is a bunch of Nazi chefs and I decided to follow...", "I wanna be a Betty Crocker kinda gal without the box" or the infamous, I saw too much Food Network and think that everything on television is acting and easy.  Newsflash.  IT'S HARD!  Exhausting and tiring and if this isn't your passion, walk the hell out of the kitchen and save yourself the aggravation.  Don't dare try to break the glass for oxygen.  That's my reserve.  Five and some hours of working.  Eight doors down is my school.  No breaks.  Five hours of being ripped a new one by my adoring but crazy chefs.  They've learned what they had to learn.  Still learn how some of us are morons and sometimes mystified by our lack of trying to give a damn.  

6:30pm...depending on the day, I'm on a trail.  Just a nice word for being an apprentice.  I'm a patissier in training...few doors away from my school and my job as a Soup Kitchen Chef.  If not, I'm home by 7:30.  Perhaps if I feel like being an adventurous adult, I'm looking for a cheap bar to score some shots with my classmates.  They share my love/hate relationship.  They understand that we have no life in this business and we've set ourselves up to this penitentiary but we frigging love it.  The smell of production.  The speed, the burn marks, the battle scars, the yelling...why do we do this to ourselves?  We LOVE it.  We live it.  It makes my nipples perk and don't you dare touch me when I'm close to erupting.  

Chix Milanese w/ Spring Salad & Penne

I'm home.  Turn off the kitchen talk.  Wait...I have to cook.  Hubby tells me not to worry bout it but I know he wants to eat and as tired as I am, I want to cook because I love this insanity.  The glimmer on his face.  The silence and erotic moans erupting from their mouths as they eat a piece of me.  It's my meal they're enjoying.  We may even have company over tonight.  Who knows?  But dinner is served baby.  I love to keep my family happy, even if it means that I'm going to crash before I take ten bites.  Sorry baby...not tonight.  I promised I'd stay up and watch a movie but I'm frigging exhausted.  I promise...tomorrow, I'll make a better attempt of staying up later.  Perhaps, I'll wake up in three hours like I tend to do when I realized that I broke yet another promise of movie night and I didn't help my son with his homework.  Just wait babe...this will all be worth it.  I'm done with the physical portion in four more weeks in school.  I can smell my externship approaching.  Corporate dining.  Stable hours.  Monday through Friday.  Maybe not as crazy as a restaurant but I still get to have my rendezvous with my cast iron, stroke my steel and make it beg for me and I still get to have my family.  Don't worry babe.  Four more weeks.  I'm drowning myself in food and photography for a bit longer for a gratifying end result.  Thank you for being patient.  Your understanding turns me on.  Your support makes me horny.  Babe, turn out the lights.  I want to make love to you under the dessert that I made for you.  It's 2am...you know that we're going to be exhausted in a few hours. 

Upside down on purpose...my life.

Don't worry...I'll beat the alarm clock and apologize for the assault and battery.  It's used to this by now.  Esthero, lull us to sleep.  Besides, we only have less than four hours to get up for work and do it all over again.  Thank God for weekends but that's another form of passion.  Photography finds a way to call me and stroke my legs gently.  She knows how to make my shutter flutter.

Welcome...and hi again.  Did I forget to mention that I am a chef and photographer in training?