Comfort Food – Comfort #57

Posted on March 3, 2011

7


My job is to write recipes. My supervisor tells me that I’m too messy, and the French chefs mock me in their sissy French language which I hate more than anything. I leave animal stomachs and blood and entrails all over the kitchen, so I guess I am messy,  and none of my recipes ever make sense — they are complicated and jumbled when written on a white board.

I’m only twenty eight but I’ve created my masterpiece, a delicious cake, but my stupid supervisor doesn’t understand the directions. So what if my lines are crooked? So what if he can’t understand the step by step guide? The cake is all that matters.

I’m a chef. I’m not wealthy monetarily, but women love a man that can cook. I tell them, sometimes in a messy way, that I’m quite a catch and then I cook them a souffle to die for, but I could never teach them how to make it.  I don’t have a job now, but I leave that out until we start talking about marriage and kids and who will cook breakfast.

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Posted in: Food, Year 1: Comfort