Hellview

So, I keep having these strange, almost reoccurring dreams
Same plot line, but never the same instance
I'm always searching for something, or someone, a longing desire
I know myself...or so I think I do

Of course, I'm always longing for something, and have a desire to obtain a goal
Or a dream in this case
Maybe it's a longing for my own kitchen, my own renegade ship of pirates over the stoves
While I sit at the helm, giving the fire commands and sending molten hot food plates out

Perhaps it could be a longing for closure of my fallen family members
Actually knowing who my father really is, and finally hearing the famous
Words from movies as the father lies on the death bed, "I'm proud of you son"
It could be my subconscious desire to be better than what I am
Having my hand back, and going about my merry way to the land
Of white picket fences where I once was

We are all dressed in decay, in the same familiar realm trying to escape from ourselves
I however, don't wish to escape...I want to discover it, I want to discover myself
In depth, not just the surface

The Stars Meet The Sky

Found old high school memories, old friends faces, and their notes scrawled on paper
Looking back, I realized I had drive, I had an unbreakable spirit
Nothing could ever bring me to my knees, no person could ever bring me down
I pushed myself to be better, I pushed others to be better than me

I think an old high school mentor I had put it the best way

"You're a strong kid, you've overcome a lot, and have a leg up over most people you're age. Always keep pushing yourself"

I read that, I read it aloud, I even spelled it out
Didn't hit me
I looked through the eyes of someone else at things I've done
That's when it hit me

What I create, what I cook, what I do to me is normal
It's my vision, I already have dreamed it up in my mind
What it will look like, taste like, smell like, what it will be
So, really to me it isn't anything new

But stopping to sit down and look, not just look, but through a foreign set of eyes
Stopping to read through a different brain, not my own for once
Speaking words through a tongue that isn't attached to me
Looking down at my hand, what my ignorance and frustration caused

I know my calling, I found it, but someone made me question it
Something burning inside me caused me to be weary
But in the end, today I finally heard what I should have been listening to the entire time
My heart

Cook Free Or Die

Sure, it's a phrase that Bourdain himself has coined, but I don't really feel that the majority of his readers (fellow cooks, and chefs alike) really understand on the level he was aiming at.

To cook is to create, is to live, to breathe, to love, to laugh, to be. Cooks beat to the tempo of a drum that most people never will understand, and some fellow cooks for that matter will never understand. To cook free is to find appreciation with what you're cooking. To be able to harbor a so called "endangered species" from an "unknown source" and cook the hell out it into something amazing. It's to take a shark filet and make a tartare, it's to be able to deep fry something in whale fat, it's to put foie grais on a club sandwich, it's to make a dish out of sweetbreads.

It seems that many of the cooks I know seem to have a falling out with their passion, what they do, also tend to forget what drives them to do it. For me it's more than the half way decent paycheck, it's more than the first sip of a cold beer after a long shift, it's more than the first cup of coffee in the morning...hell, maybe it's the first cup of coffee alone that helps drive me.

Most of the time we are going into work, or already at work by the time you are about to head into work, or we are about to end our shift by the time you're going to bed, let me tell you how amazing grocery shopping is at 4 in the morning.

Maybe I spend too much time trying to put into words what drives me, and what is a true definition of my passion, my nature if you will. Surely most of the people reading this won't understand it, and half the time I don't because I can't fully express what these words, the tastes, the memories I have really mean. Maybe I just have this blog as a giant white board to see my thoughts, my progression...yet still I can't narrow it down as to what my main passion is for cooking other than the process itself.

If I could do anything over in life it'd be to do it all over again the same way. Sure,I could make wiser choices, but in the end the result wouldn't be the same.

Blood Deep

Our blood runs deeper than a family geneaology
We come from different races, languages, and expierances
But we all come from the same sadistic family

We find love in what we do
We push ourselves to learn more, do more, and produce more
We break barriers that "others" set before us

We're the ones that skipped high school classes to smoke and get tattoos
We're the ones that showed up late, half asleep, and cheated on tests
We're the ones that had no clue what we wanted out of life

We fell victim to drugs
We "hustled" we sold, we stole, we "lived life"
We didn't even know what life meant

You keep your 9-5, you balance the books for some asshole
You push the pencils and scribble on paper
You put on a suit and tie every morning as you kiss your wife good-bye

As for me?

I'll button up my chef coat, tie my apron, and fold my rags
I'll shove my hand into a 450 degree over numerous times a night
I'll grab something straight out of a fryer and place it on a plate

In the end? I love what I do
You?
I pay you to do the things I don't have time to
In the end of it all? I love my job, and you?
You just have an income

A Letter to the World

Let's face it, I'm a cook for a living. I see more than you do, do more than you do, and find some sick almost fetish love for playing with open flame, sharp objects, and dead animals. I see an entire leg of lamb to break down, and my rocks get off. I want to make this perfectly clear though, I'm not standing here, stooping, bending, leaning, reaching over hot flame, into an oven, or exclaiming profanities while hot oil splashes on my hands for your pleasure. I'm not a waitress/waiter/server/busser/bartender. I'm a cook. I make them their money, they make the business money, and I made what made you your tips. Who do I have to thank? My dishwasher usually night prep guy.

I deal with the hot, dead, shit, I make something out of at times, absolutley "nothing" in your eyes. Do I do it to please you? Do you even notice my O.C.D. shining through when I get pissed off something falls out of place? No. You see the food, you love it, it smells great...you're happy. Am I? No, for I am a borderline perfectionist. I read you as a person like I read the tickets. You order a salmon filet well done? I automatically assume you want EVERYTHING on the side, you're covered in cat hair, and are probably going to write a shitty review of the restaraunt. You order a salmon mid-rare? You have hopes, dreams, and ambitions and know how to eat your food. If it comes out a little underdone? You won't complain, but oh holy shit if it comes out mid-well chances are you'll bitch and whine and offer to teach me how to cook a piece of fish.

Truth is, food is not all shaped the same. Sorry. It's just how it is. I do my best to find the best filet I have to cook to the temp you want, but sometimes things happen faster than you expect. Don't even get me started on well done steaks and people bitching it's taking too long and how "the entire table has gotten their food...where's mine?" Well, you did order a well done filet. I'm pretty sure the cook told the server, hell, even before the cook told the server he/she said "it's going to take a good 20 minutes".

Everyone is so caught up in this "celebrity chef" bull shit. Don't get me wrong, I do think Batalli is a great chef just like I think Paula Dean is...but everyone sees such shows as "Hell's Kitchen", "Chopped", and "Top Chef", and think what we do is easy. Tell you what, how about I give you a basket of mangos, leeks, and halibut...what are you to do now? You have NO idea how to put them together. Now, honestly do they really go together? Probably not, but I'm sure if I put thought into I could find a way.

I'm just merely stating that the pissed off waitrons who bitch and whine about their job, the cat haired old ladies, the so called "food snobs" because they happen to eat beluga roe when they were 7 and their pallette far under developed, the well-done steak ketchup on the side, the well done "can you make a steak sauce?", the "can the kitchen make a cocktail sauce for my butter poached shrimp", the "I want my seared tuna well done", the burger well done going "it's dry", the "I want my steak rare...oh no, it's too bloody, I guess I really didn't know how I wanted it done..."....you all can blow me. OH! And you want to bitch at the waitress saying the food/service sucked? If you can't afford to go out, than don't do it.

The waitrons do a service to the cooks of serving the food, the cooks make the food as it's ordered, we make them money (usually a lot more than we make) and why, you ask? It's the direct definition of passion. Any asshole can cook a steak, but to really love, and try to understand what made that steak so great, the cut, where it came from, how it came in, how it was cooked, what it was cooked in...that's my job. I don't think you could stand back here and feel what I feel. I feel heat, exhaustion, and an undying passion to become something far better than what I am now.

Bullies

I was bullied as a kid, probably a little more than the others
I was also a fat kid...I kinda had it coming and then I stood up for myself
Everything changed then, I mean EVERYTHING
I had the "feared" respect, and learned at a young age I was a bully myself
Well, to some extent at least.

I'm a bully in the sense of I'll push you farther, harder, and be more honest with you than most people you will ever meet
I grew up watching one cooking show religiously, I even faked being sick to watch it
Was it because I wanted to cook? I wanted my own show? I can't decide
He demonstrated in very broken English what he was cooking, but also showed the history of the food, where it came from, how it came to be, and what it consisted of and the small village it came from

That's what drives me cook, the history of food
Tonight at work I harassed some girls ordering because they were afraid they would say the entree wrong
I, in turn taught them some French (the very few terms I know, and taught them the French terms that are common you don't realize are French), and also taught them some Spanish and we spoke back and forth in Spanish

At the gas station buying a pack of smokes I had a girl yell out "donde vida?" I replied with "I think you mean donde mota, and no, I don't smoke" "Well, you're a chef where does your inspiration come from?" Realizing she was a complete and total un-educated, and quick to draw assumptions I replied with "I drink a lot of whiskey" I played the introvert card.

Inspiration isn't a direct result of intoxication. The mind itself is setup to be creative, we just miss it half the time. If Silverback Gorillas can teach themselves to stand and walk on their legs, we as humans can in turn realize where we actually come from and realize what we really are. What really makes us, drives us, and excites us. Sure, intoxication might "heighten the senses" but in the end? It's merely thoughts we subconciously choose to ignore.

I wake up the same way most people do...one pant leg at a time, I drink my coffee, I eat what everyone else does...frozen biscuits, sausage...etc. The realization that chefs eat like "normal" people is something that should be understood. We, most times, cook hundreds of meals a day...you really think we want to "cook" food after working 14 hours a day? Hell no. We eat like "normal" people do. We aren't seperate from you by any means, we just have a drive that is viewed as, and I quote from a lady tonight at work "you have to be kidding? You are in school from 9-3, in a kitchen and will go to work from 4 to 1 am?" "well maam, if I didn't love what I do, I wouldn't go to school for it. Cooking professionally isn't for everybody. It takes a special person to do it. Just promise me you never refer to cooks as artists...we, basically, are craftsmen. An architect makes "art" but it's still classified as a trade, a craft, same as a carpenter."

Flickering Lights

I sit here with no power, yet again. Of course, I stay at one of the four houses out of power in a two mile radiusl. Go figure. We went from half-ass power, to no power. I of course, being a five year old, run and turn lights and appliances on and off listening to the drain from my AC going up and down. Maybe I helped the loss of total power for half an hour, or maybe it was a cable that burnt. Either way, I felt something.

Sitting here in the silence, scrawling on paper with the only sounds in life being the flicker of a candle, my cat licking herself, and the drone of machines attempting to what nature made man to realize, I heard something; Silence. It was beautiful.

Listening to the sounds of man made machines, attempting to fix what man harvested from nature. Man didn't make electricity, nature did. Man merely harvested the means of what nature provided us. Much like in poverish countries, a feast to them of buying a goat to slaughter is the equivilance to us buying a car in cash. It's something we don't savor like we used to. Something we don't appreciate.

Tonight I found something deeper within myself. Sure, it might have been there the entire time, but tonight it's back. My drive, my desire, my curiosity; It's all back in full swing and I'm ready to go in. That's why I cook, there is always some deeper, darker meaning behind the person who made the food, not the food itself. The food speaks for a person who cannot easily speak in poetic forms, and doesn't have the means to draw on a canvas. We have a walk-in, a dream, and an empty stomach to feed.