*Baptism By Fire

Nobody likes to be handed the controls of a plane

while the pilot leaps out with the last chute,

left with the thought that they must not only fly the plane,

but land it, taxi it and then unload all the baggage.

That is how my first Live-Fire went at school last week.

Since I am throwing myself into an honest project, I cannot in good conscience leave out my first bloodied, beaten ass day on this chronicle.  Hell, I promised you a high-sticking hockey fight, and I will deliver. What kind of journalist would I be if  it was all sunshine, roses and an easy A?

Those of you who know me well enough have probably rarely seen me cook eggs. Hate ‘em. Eat ‘em out of necessity. Its all we have in this country that is not a syrup sponge for breakfast. A side of hog, however, in any form, is always appreciated, but eggs? Feh! I’d take a steaming bowl of Pho or some rice, beans and sausage any day, but please, don’t force me to eat eggs. Or Cook them, obviously.

“Chef, I SO suck at eggs. You gotta help me.”

I confessed my weakness as the doom cloud hovered over me like a twenty story tall chicken with an attitude problem. My new chef, Chef H, perked up like a sadist, smiled and chilled me from the inside out. He was so gonna love this, every second of it, I just knew it.

Live fire day in school is when you and your team attempt to cook meals to order as if you were on a line in a real kitchen. You set up your stove and work table, gather and prepare all your Mise en Place, set up hot and cold holding areas, diagram out a touch sequence for plating, and hopefully, if all goes well, you recall all the orders, prepare them correctly and get them out hot, pretty and timely. Most of us usually pee ourselves as the first order comes in, and then deliver a danish into our shorts just about the same time we realize that some piece of equipment, a recipe or a component has failed to serve its purpose. This is called, “Going to hell in a handbasket”.

I was stressed. I sought out wise counsel of my former chef, Chef B and my former day shift classmates who had gone through the live fire ahead of me. Chef B said I was going to be shown what was expected. GREAT! A classmate said he had gone second, finding it highly beneficial after watching the first team’s mistakes and making good alterations to his own team’s production. AWESOME! I thought about my medical training being structured into “See one, do one, teach one.” I knew I had it totally licked, if only from a setup standpoint- half the battle.

Can I tell you that Satan loves me?

We were shown nothing before-hand. We all live-fired at once. We all rotated stations every ten minutes. I crapped myself right outta the gate. Never had time to pull up a garbage can to puke when my egg poaching water failed. Whatever hair I had that was not already gray fell out when my hysterical team mate started shrieking and just pointing at things that were not working well. The griddle was too cool for toasting our English muffins for Benedict. The hash was put on too late and the potatoes were not tender. I had to run for another batch of poaching water and heat it from a cold start as all the orders were held up until we could complete our first ticket in sequence. Eggs were in danger of overcooking while I juggled searingly hot plates to the line for hash and egg delivery, then to the pass for service.

The last straw was the waving of the sputtering, 400 degree saute pan in my face (and I do mean IN my face, eye level, about 3-4 inches away) by Hysterical Team Mate as I burned the shit out of my hands holding an over-heated plate for eggs. His eggs. The ones in my face. The face that should have conveyed calm and control. The control that went out the window with the words, “Get that FUCKING hot saute pan out of my FACE, and don’t you EVER scream at me again!”. The words that rang through the kitchen, out into the student lounge, across the Burnside Bridge and over into western Idaho.

We pulled off enough dishes to stave off complete humiliation, but not with any grand style or 100% accuracy. In short, we landed the plane, did not run anyone over on taxi to the gate and only lost a few bags. For a first try, it was fair. I wish my mental state was that good when I went home that night. Without going into much detail, I will tell you that it bruised my ego severely to A) Have been shown up by a team that all head years of prior breakfast experience (duh, Jen!), and B) Losing my composure in front of the whole class. A night of mental anguish was not all for naught, though, my bitchsmacking was fully supported by the whole class, as well as half of Boise, so I guess some good came of it. I am realllly glad my eyes were not still swollen when I went back to school the next night. Visine is your friend.

SO, I get set up repeatedly with crappy recipes all last week, just so I can learn the hard way. My instructor likes to teach by negative space- leaves out what everyone else tells you, so you can see what goes wrong instead of perfection every time. I respect that. I do. I just hate getting my ass kicked. I’d rather land a plane.