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?