I pride myself on being a good upstairs neighbor. I don't have loud footsteps. I listen to the TV at a reasonable level. And I always go to sleep at a responsible hour, or at least I'm reading a book and quiet. But when I stumbled down the stairs at 6:30 this morning (a Saturday) carrying about 30 pounds worth of cooking equipment and wearing clunky steel-toed shoes, I couldn't help but think, well, there goes my good neighbor reputation.
Because good chefs are loud. Maybe not at home. But in the kitchen you have to yell. Communicate. Talk over each other. And every so often the word "fuck!" screamed at the top of your lungs is an appropriate response to searing your palm on the handle of a pot over open flame, or gluing your finger with spun sugar to the ramekin of caramel you're attempting to turn into flan.
I love it.
Two weeks down, only 40 to go. I've already burned my wrist and grated my arm. Another girl has perfect parallel lines down her forearms from where she accidentally wrapped her arms around a hot sheet tray.
Who needs tattoos to commemorate graduation from culinary school? We're already accruing battle wounds.
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So this is what I have to look forward to? HAHA! Maybe being as clumsy as I am I should take out more medical insurance. ;-) So glad you are having so much fun! To hurt yourself and still keep a positive attitude shows how much passion you have for this form of art.
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