Making the Chef

My hands

There's a certain romanticism in blue collar work ... I think it stems from the fact that 1) you're actually doing something, and 2) at the end of the day, you've done something tangible, something that you can be proud of. And one of the proofs of this kind of work is a blue collar worker's hands.

My hands are getting more and more messed up every day. I'm usually pretty happy when I can go a week without getting a new burn or cut on my hands. I've already got so many scars, cuts, nicks and burns that it's hard to keep track of what came form where. A burn on my left wrist from making stock. A burn on my left middle finger from a hot pot. Nicks on the sides of my thumbs from hotel pans. A almost healed fingertip, sliced off from a very sharp veggie slicer. Small bumps everywhere on my hands due to dermatitis ... I'm not keeping my hands moisturized enough, causing irritation ... so now I moisturize three times a day. And the biggest callus on my body is right above the joint between my right index finger and my hand. It's where the pressure of your knife is ... work it enough, you get a blister. Keep working it, you get a callus.

The skin right underneath my nails and my cuticles are stained from basalmic vinegar dressing, but there's not much under my nails to be stained. I am constantly trimming my nails as far back as they can go. The condition of my fingers is absolutely horrible. Any manicurist would be shocked ... and personally, I'd rather get a massage (you'd be amazed how much tension I carry in my forearms).

I don't mind that I'm getting injured. It's part of the job. About the only time that I do mind it is when I'm working with seafood (lots of bacteria in it, which finds its way into your injuries and irritates them) and when I'm working with acids (citrus juice tends to really sting).

But pain is something you just don't think about. You maybe shout, bitch, but you always keep your wits. You keep on holding the pot that's burning your hand and put it down gently. You take your sliced finger, put down your knife calmly, and then walk over to the first aid station. Put on a bandaid, a finger cot (think finger-sized condom), and keep on working, checking every so often to make sure it's not full of blood.

It's funny, sometimes I find myself sitting somewhere and just looking at my hands, admiring how fucked up they are. I'm reminded of dating a gal who, as a hint to tell me that my hands were too ... ahem ... rough, gave me a bottle of hand cream to help with the situation. Glad I'm not dating her now.

posted by LindyChef @ 7:55 PM