in the kitchen

coming into the kitchen means taking off parts of yourself at the door. take your headphones out and pull the chef's whites on. put your hair in a ponytail and a kerchief on (pink, of course, for dirt candy). 

no one's gonna be your friend. you should know that before you've walked in there. in a way, that's a blessing. no one's gonna bullshit you or lie to you. you live and die by how well you can cook a chicken or sear a steak. the response you get is raw, real, honest. i was always attracted to this - especially as i grew as a project manager with copies of saveur and food and wine shoved in my desk like illicit porn mags. "don't have me stick around if i'm not needed," i thought, "don't tell me i'm doing well if i'm not."

kitchen folk are passionate. we are the ones that talk too loud or laugh too much. we take the extra slice of pizza, eat the entire jar of peanut butter. when we fall in love, we fall head over heels. we are unaware of moderation (except with salt). 

i want to teach you how to be clean. knife skills. time management. you're going to learn how to be a professional chef - even if you never step foot inside a professional kitchen.