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For all of the things that cooking professionally contributes to my fleeting grip on sanity, there are aspects which come extremely close to redeeming the unseemly qualities that are scrambled throughout all of my writing. These “perks”, as I know them, are the things that I would dearly miss if I were to one day get a hair cut, and of course a real job.

Shouts of “Scrap attack, motherfucker!” preclude any sort of impromptu trim feast in the kitchen I work in. It’s the only occasion I’m even remotely okay with being called a motherfucker, mostly because I reserve that terminology for inanimate objects. For example: “That drawer/stove/blender is a motherfucker.” Anyways, the aforementioned scrap attack is one of the better parts of a cook’s day. Throughout preparation, trimmings of all sorts of goodies accumulate, eventually winding up in the deep frier, then onto a plate and doused with some kind of mayo/hot sauce amalgam. Tasty toxic treats, twice a day, five or six days a week. I’ll stop when my ass doubles in size, at which point I’ll readily find work in rap videos. A fiscally pleasing side effect of the snack attack, is that it detriments only your health and not your wallet. The cook’s paycheck isn’t going to lure any gold diggers, but the free eats and drinks save me at least a couple hundred bucks a month. As a result, trips to the grocery store aren’t nearly as devastating as they would be if I had a “real job”.

We recently had a tap installed in our walk-in fridge, with the beer being supplied by Driftwood Brewing, just a few miles down the road. Freshest beer I’ve ever had, which counts for a lot at the end of the nightly rape and pillage. The post slam pint is the kitchen equivalent of post race podium champagne, except instead of all over the place, the beer winds up where it was meant to: in our bellies. It’s our way of celebrating, and we just happen to celebrate often. We’re jovial, alright?

Another blessing that appears as mere laziness is the cook’s ability to wake up whenever they want. There’s an alarm clock in my bedroom, but it’s on my girlfriend’s side of the bed, and I’d need to read the manual to set it. I’m up late, not depressed teenager late, but late enough that everyone else in the world is on their first or second coffee break of the day. I like this. The world that is available to me in my mornings before work is exactly that; available to me. The city becomes one big post apocalyptic candy store, and the only people to brush elbows with are the ones with the same lifestyle. Getting shit done is a breeze when you’re doing it on Tuesday morning instead of Sunday afternoon. I almost died of panic the last time I was at a Home Depot on the weekend. Never again… Never again.

In addition to the freedom, the schedule provides a welcome oppression. By this I mean that I never have to figure out to do on Friday night. Or Saturday for that matter. I’m busy, and will be for as long as I’m doing this. I might get one or two of these big nights off, but it’s typically for plans that have been made for me, obligations if you will. Sure I miss my friends, but I don’t miss standing in line at some shitty bar because I can’t afford to bribe the doorman. I would much rather be sweating behind a stove on Saturday, being part of the reason for one of those awful line ups.

~ Jacob Galbraith