Generally, my hands look like hell, like every other cook I have met. My hands get covered in burns from dropping things in oil a little to quickly or reaching for a saute pan without my trusty side towel in hand. I get a myriad of nicks and scrapes from all sorts of things: trying to chop onions a little bit quicker than last time, catching the back of my hand on the underside of the prep table, trying to grate that last little bit of parm stuck to the rind. I, like everyone who lives with a knife in their hand, have a diagonal callus on my index finger the exact width of my chefs knife. Having been out of the kitchen since my going away party (and applying lotion to my new tattoo four times a day) has turned my hands soft. All of my burns have healed, I have feeling back in my fingertips, I can rub my face and arms without feeling the urge to gnaw off the dead skin that invariably covers a large part of my hands. God, do I miss the kitchen.
I am looking forward to five straight days of open to close doubles. Now, the real stories start...
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