She's a workhorse of a stove. The oven runs hot and the door squeals something fierce, but you can put out a lot of food with four big blue flames and a few square feet of flat-top. (Not pictured: deep fryer, conveyor-belt toaster, really old microwave.)
My breakfast days are an amalgam of hope and frustration, wherein fleeting moments of satisfaction akin to those of executing intricately contrapuntal piano exercises are followed by seeming hours of personal failure manifested as incompletely flipped eggs and mangled toast. When the board is clear and you haven't run out of anything yet, the potential for a positive outcome returns: new eggs liquidly conform to their temporary circular habitat and gently, inexorably coagulate. Manage to be there at the right moment and you can plate a thing of beauty and a joy for breakfast.
But sometimes all the voices' ruckus can't be addressed with merely two hands. "I'm burning!" "Flip me, hurry!" "I need to be buttered..." "Buuuurp, excuse me, better clean that up." Which leaves you smashing your hands across the keyboard, so to speak (ie: repeat "fuckfuckfuck" as necessary), drowning out the clamor of mistakes and inattention with your own cacophony.
So it's nice that only happens two days a week. It practically feels like goofing off the other days, making chili and casesar dressing and candied walnuts and corn muffins.
Oatmeal update: Apparently the cereal grain gods disapprove of my shit-talking, and avenged themselves upon me with an unprecedented volume of oatmeal orders (like 30 bowls in an hour and a quadruple to-go order). I hereby stick a spoon in the ground and offer up the finest joints of burnt toast in appeasement.
Also, I got to ride in a helicopter -- for three minutes! The hiking guide happened to choose the closest mountain ridge to the the take-off point, but what we lacked in heli time we made up for in hiking and seeing of awesome landscape. Hurray for fresh air and employee comps!
No comments:
Post a Comment