Saturday, 30 November 2013
But not really blogging... Still working on the book. In between feeding my creeping up alcoholism and the constant twitch I've developed whenever my apprentice starts to temperature probe a chip (yes a fucking chip. As in a starchy, handcut aioli-sided potato chip), before asking me if it's cooked.
Somebody buy my book. Then I can have a holiday... And maybe get rid of this twitch.
Seriously, I'm a cross between a sad half-assed orgasm and a mental patient in the dementia ward of an aged care home that isn't quite old enouigh to be there...
Please buy my book :) if I ever find a publisher.
I miss you all!!!!
Saturday, 16 November 2013
Little Chef can't do it anymore.
Every now and again, we hit a wall, at that wall comes crashing down over our world and we wake up one day and think: "Can I seriously do this anymore?"
When the answer is no: you're done.
Is ALDI hiring?
Saturday, 26 October 2013
Friday, 25 October 2013
Monday, 21 October 2013
Wednesday, 18 September 2013
The boy doesn't like spiders.
I don't like moths.
So naturally we trade off the employment of Who Gets To Kill What.
I don't mind killing spiders either. They're there. You see them. They most likely see you. They don't move.
Moths will suddenly bong a red bull and Jackie Chan the fuck out of a fly kick - right to your face.
Spiders are a lot more courteous.
Thursday, 12 September 2013
The guy interviewing me was possibly the coolest individual I've ever met in my life. At one point he goes silent, picks up my CV and looks at me saying:
"You're 22... And your resume screams to be cummed on."
You see kids? If you kick the shit long enough, eventually you'll put yourself into a position where everybody wants to kick yours.
Tuesday, 10 September 2013
Let's say you are given the option of face or tits.
You will sit there and make your decision and have 20 arguments supporting that decision and why it's the right one, or the right one for you.
But at the end of the day...
You're still just getting cummed on.
Sunday, 8 September 2013
Now, I should be embarrassed. But for some odd reason, I'm not. I'm actually slightly comforted.
Because he gave me the thumbs up.
As we are currently finallising our summer calender, I have a few points that need to be addressed.
It has come to my attention that majoirty of people I know are fully aware of my loser tendencies. I believe you have named it "straight edge".
However it has also been noted that this apparently makes me the perfect candidate for the designated job title of the "Look After Everyone's Fucked Up Asses" gal.
Just no. Stop it.
You should take note that: I am already laughing at you. If one of my dearest closest friends is fucked up, googed up, naked, drunk, dead, masturbating in public or making out with a tree branch, unless you choose to do so AFTER the headlining act I'm purposely going to see, I will be of no more assistance to you than every other Joe Somebody there lolling hysterically at you... Possibly with a video camera for future blackmailing purposes.
In the anticipation of such events, (and because I'm a freaking genius when I don't drink too much) I have prepared "Please Return To:" cards which I will distribute if required.
Best. Idea. Ever.
Sunday, 1 September 2013
Like going to the bathroom where my stuff is already there.
Getting a glass of water from the tap.
Big, fat motherfucking chips. None of this French fries crap.
Walking around naked, without the fear of some German backpacker copping a B-grade full frontal.
I miss a toilet being a toilet and a shower being a shower.
Whilst this does promote some pretty satisfying multi-tasking...
Those two were never meant to be one and the same.
Thursday, 29 August 2013
That moment when you've stashed cash inside your bra and go to pay for something and it gets lost in the rolling sea of fatty tissue and padded cotton polyester.
It's like: "I swear I am trying to pay you I'm not just showcasing a public nipple-fondling session."
Not unlike the exhilarating occasion I got a PB time for shucking two dozen Coffin Bay oysters.
This may be a little bit pathetic... But it was a proud moment.
Wednesday, 28 August 2013
^ Saigon. Not even during peak hour.
I will never complain about Melbourne traffic again. Not even for the fuckknuckles that can't comprehend hook turns.
The chaotic and unsystematic mental institution on two motorised wheels that is Vietnam city streets, trumps all.
And of course pedestrian crossings are on the list of "Impossible Things That Could Never Happen". I'm not quite sure how I've managed so far but I'm pretty sure I will be returning home a fearless bastard.
I'm definitely loving the 50c pints, the countless amounts of noodles and the fact that they use the fatty cuts of meat in the street food. A woman named Alyn is to blame for my current podginess. She could be the love child of Pol Pot and Beverly Allitt and I could not give a flying fuck, when she puts a bowl of her seafood stew in front of me on my plastic stool in the less than reputable gutter, I am like a dog having his belly scratched.
"1000 Star Hotel" is the nickname for living and eating on the streets.
I got her giggling when I learnt from a staff member at my hostel - the line:
"Tôi có thể xem danh sách rượu vang?" (Which, A+ for effort, took me over half an hour to learn how to say.)
Which essentially translates to: "May I see the wine list?"
I've eaten a lot of cool things too. The egg with the faetus in it was delicious in taste but vomit inducing in texture.
I've drunk way too much Tiger beer, seductively tampered with gin of course. This involved a few English and Spanish boys at a local bar screeching the Homer Simpson song:
"You put the gin in the Tiger beer and shake it allllll up!
You put the gin in the Tiger beer and throw the can away!
I said HOOOOMMMMMEEERRRR!
You throw the can away!"
Getting locals involved in this was the cherry on top too.
Ha Long Bay is also every bit as beautiful as all the stories. Pictures do it no words either. But there was something eerily cool about blasting some Aoki on a boat in the middle of the bay at sunset, teaching a bunch of six foot Spaniards how to wiggle.
Melbourne Sound represent!!
My mate and I departed each other's company in Hue, he wanted a resort and I wanted the surf. So even though it involved spending two days on a bus with a drunk local who had a nasty case of the voms, I've been chasing the surf down the coast to Nha Trang.
Seriously - THIS for two days was definitely a form of torture. Not even for the seating... Or the bright flashing neon lights... Or the faint smell of dead horse meat that's been through two intestinal tracts coming from the bathroom.
But torturous because they played old Madonna film clips on repeat for the first 8 hour leg of the trip.
DEATH TO LIKE A VIRGIN!!!
Nha Trang however, has not disappointed.
For ten days I'm having waves shred my shoulders and (-insert stereotypically corny line-) the sun has been kissing my skin... Then cooking it Tepanyaki style... Then after a bit of After Sun and a cold shower, we're back to kissing.
Also, I may have a slight quivering soft spot for people that cook seafood for you right on the beach.
Chilli, salt, lime, butter, crayfish. As you can see from my highly motivated position there on the sun lounge... Life's tough.
I did however think I was going to die when riding to Jungle Beach, keen for the five foot shore break but getting stuck in an instantaneous storm of Herculean proportions.
Not to mention, monsoon aside, there's nothing like feeling uneasy when you've got a surfboard shoddily attached with some very questionable jockey straps, to a motorbike which for some God unknown reason, they've let me hire for the week even though I don't have a licence. No fucks given by the locals if you've got 10 bucks and fill the 125cc bad boy back up again at the end of the day.
The sunrise however, over the rice paddies, was beyond spectacular.
You see this?
This is essentially a giant vietnamese rice cracker.
A big ass Sa Ka Ta.
Coconut and black sesame flavoured.
The defining tranquil moment though was finishing the day off with some rice wine, a beautiful sunset and a city view of Hanoi.
I just never want to leave.
Monday, 26 August 2013
But alcohol at least then FIXES the problems.
I used to be delightfully slender.
Then I fell in love with Lescure...
DAMN YOU TO HELL YOU DELICIOUSLY SALTY MARBLED BUTTER!!!
<3 <3 <3
You hurt me... But I will love you forever and always.
It's been years since I've played Pokemon but I used to be obsessed when I was younger.
Getting a bit rusty with my Level Of Nerd and I was feeling frustrated that I kept repeatedly trying to punch or karate kick the shit out of a nasty Gengar with my Hypno. Obviously, to no avail. But clearly I was forgetting each time. I dunno... Must be tired or some shit. Was up half the night anyway with the young German couple in the room next to me having mind-blowing sex.
That or they just decided to vacuum over a cat at about 3am... And again at 5.
Then I remembered that Gengar is Clefairy's shadow... and you can't punch a shadow.
Mind. Fucking. Blown.
And to be honest I think it's the cuddles I miss the most. Which is a really strange thing to miss.
Because there's no logic behind missing having one arm securely around another person...
While other gets contorted into a pretzel-shaped piece of origami and you wake up with carpel tunnel.
Although I suppose I shouldn't really talk about logic.
My Maccas order is a large Double Quarter-Pounder meal with an extra Cheeseburger, Oreo McFlurry with extra bits of shit in it and a Diet Coke.
Saturday, 17 August 2013
Friday, 16 August 2013
I've been battling 94% humidity and a bloated Vietnamese food baby for the past week or so.
Good Internet is not the simplest of things to come by in the sunny destination of Saigon - or Hanoi. Or on the 38 hour train ride that separated the two.
But the official verdict?
50c pints and $2 bowls of vermicelli goodness?
Happy, happy Little One (almost inevitably soon to be Not So Little One).
Of course on the first day my travelling partner in crime crashed from jet lag and I wandered the streets alone.
Do not let me wander the streets of Saigon alone.
I'll wind up on a plastic chair in a chilli eating competition with some Germans and some locals.
And I will lose.
I made the big scary 6 foot something blonde descendents of Brad Pitt crossed with Hercules look like Mary Poppins, but geeeeez the locals demolished me.
So aside from spending my first 24 hours feeling like my face had melted off and seeing a talking coyote dressed as Boy George at the end of my bed, (91% sure not real...) things are pretty fucking fabulous.
In a few days I will be learning the greatest thing I think as a chef, I could possibly learn.
My kitchen hand from Melbourne (a delightful little Vietnames/Coburg boy by the English name of Martin -real name still unknown) has given me the address of his grandmother, an email ahead and told her to teach my how to make pho.
Please excuse me whilst I squeal in pure culinary delight!
I know by the end of this trip I will never be able to eat Vietnamese in Melbourne again, because 1. I will believe the price to be nothing short of extortion.
And 2. Because I will have evolved into a noodle snob who now believes that this so-called 'bun' is really just code for 'dental floss'.
But for now.
Happy times :)
Well walking through a beautiful country field is also spectacular but it doesn't mean you won't step in a heaping pile of fermenting cow dung.
I think the first thing that everyone perceives to be the 'norm' is that you'll have amazing food cooked for you every night...
Shush. I'd live off green apples and mi goreng if I didn't care about having regular bowel movements every morning.
Think of the reality that at dinner time for you Ninetofivers I'm probably up to my neck in fat, meat juice, salad prep or head first, ass up in a chest freezer, lifeguard-hauling the back up pork belly because the good people of Melbourne decided to order it for once.
Oh yeah. We smell...
I'll be coming home well after you've eaten, maybe even gone to bed and if I have an appetite at all, it's for a bottle of red or six magnificent specimens of the Heineken variety that I salute with the same form of adoration you see for soldiers, like they're tall, sleek, green glass representations of the ANZACs.
I might even pull out the big guns and have toast. Or if I've got the energy and my hands aren't too blistered and cut up, I'll fire up some mi goreng in the magical, oversized box-clock that occasionally cooks shit.
'Microwave' for anybody that didn't get that.
But stemming back to my inner feminist - expect me to cook and you're probably going to have her come out to play, or more accurately, erupt out of the depths of some far away abyss... and bite your fucking head off before cowering over a tin of ALDI tuna with lime and cracked pepper (because I'm a fancy fucker at home in the right mood... Or when the nuker is put in the too hard basket) and the Conen O'Brian show.
I do cook for people, but no differently than you would. Simple is delicious. Pork belly, rough spuds, some form of green leafy thing because it balances the bland colours of cholesterol and carb on the plate.
Chef Tip Number Two: Cheap and cooked right overrides sous vide fois gras any day.
Smother that little piggy in salt and don't cook your broccoli until it resembles a wet sock. The next time you're stressing about cooking for a chef just stop. We like our potato mash chunky, our lasagne a bit burnt and I put parmesan on my fucking seafood pasta. Italian connoisseurs can fuck right off on that one. I'm going to go all Danielle Steel on you here, but we feel loved when we're cooked for, nobody does it. In 6 months, two people have braved the stove top for me - my housemate and my Mum and she maintains she does it all better than me anyway (and for the most part, for a home meal, she does.)
Because with me you get served 2 parts protein, 1 part starch with a side of I Don't Give A Fuck I've Done This Shit For 80 Hours This Week.
Oh and Date Night?
More like "Sorry love can't do this weekend I have a 305 vegan wedding but does Tuesday seven weeks from now between 1:15 and 4 suit you?"
There's nothing sexy about checking out the latest bar or restaurant on a dead Tuesday night surrounded by dickwads who were too cheap for a babysitter and senior citizens who missed the 4:30 early birds bingo wings special of meat and three veg at the local RSL.
Women dating male chefs? You hear all the stories about how they're raw, passionate sex addicts, (quite inevitably true if you're a petite waitress, the back linen bags are clear and it's been a while) but I can quite clearly inform you that you will be turning to your little battery operated rabbit more often than not because the mental stress of his day is going to topple his ability to get hard to the cute little lacy number you purchased that day... If he notices at all.
We have been trained to be emotionless.
Lucky with my boy's scenario and in my general experience for the case of women chefs, we still have that undeniable global need to be loved, to be satisfied. I dunno it must be printed in our genetic makeup. Deny a female chef sex when she wants it and you may as well give a leopard a wet willy - your chances of survival without severe mauling are certainly less.
Now, it isn't alllll bad.
My boy gets treated reasonably well considering. He puts up with a lot and for the life of me I have no idea why. But he doesn't have a princess girlfriend that will whinge to him when he wants to see his mates, who demands his undivided attention because 90% of the time, I just want to be left alone. The TV is always going to be on the cricket - no playing couch commando because the Ashes are on but The Mrs. wants to see the newly renovated patio on The Block.
No. The Ashes are on so THE ASHES ARE ON.
I have a good minute when I walk in the door, that I hold my boy. I hold him and I ask him how his day was even though I probably won't comprehend his response and not a single feeling in the world would make me feel more adored than I do at that moment.
So no, I don't understand people who come home, dump the keys and bag on the bench and shout a husky hello before saying "I'm having a bath, can you turn the oven on?"
What is wrong with you people?
We're miserable, passive aggressive bastards but if you're loved by a chef, you will never be loved harder by anybody else.
... Mainly because we're just grateful to have somebody.
If you can put up with us, we will put up with everything about you.
And yes, between me and the loved one, we have our moments, we're both quick witted with a short fuse and we can go from being cuddled on the couch to throwing metaphorical rocks at each other in a beeline for the face in nothing short of a blink.
So I guess mine is a little too understanding... I have an ego, so fighting with me is like teaching a 4 year old poker, have a Royal Flush all you want, I'm going to parade around my 3, 6, Jack, Ace and 7 like I've cured cancer.
The hardest part?
I reckon it has to be the fact that my job does not end when I leave the kitchen. I go home still buzzing on my adrenaline rush and freak out about how I forgot to order mushrooms, did I turn the oven off? Fuckity fuck fuck. Who was I supposed to call about roster changes..? Then later dreaming about docket machines going off and waking up to the shrill of the service bell whilst sleepily turning to this ever adoring man who for some God unkown reason, loves me and saying: "hunny no, that's not how you peel a zucchini."
Or worse when you stop yourself mid freak out, realising that you've transformed into a completely unreasonable psychopath from stressing about a mushroom, before curling into a ball for a teary-eyed version of Rambo in First Blood drawling some incomprehensible babble about what is essentially a fungus that can easily be purchased from Safeway.
What can I say - we're fucking weird.
But with all things good and bad, you have to have the annoying which sits somewhere in the middle.
Eventually: you will have to eat offal.
I don't think I need to make any more comments about this. And I use the word offal lightly, because you can be a 'foodie' all you want (don't even get me started on that fucking word) you will eventually have your significant loved one holding a pronged piece of silverware to your face saying "TRY THIS!"
And you'll do it.
Why will you do it?
Because you love them.
I'm not asking you to like it, or to ever eat it agian. But you will open up and chew and taste and swallow that shit in the most unglamorous way possible.
All of this aside - Even after all this rambling (if you've managed to stay in tune long enough to get this far... Many apologies) I do have a point.
Dating A Chef is not about all the negatives: it's just that the general public have a very misconstrued sense of what the positives are.
On countless occasions my boy will sneak to my house and climb into bed long before I've come home, sometimes before I've even finished soaping down the disintegrating and rather useless seal of my service fridge. Every now and then he'll wake up to someone who is telling her room to stay still due to too many staff drinks and whose natural response to "Good morning gorgeous girl" is "COOOOFFFFFFFFFEEEEEEE".
You might go to sleep alone. But you'll wake up wrapped up by someone that adores you. Who loves you unconditionally.
And if that's not enough for you?
Then for fuck's sake, don't Date A Chef.
Wednesday, 7 August 2013
I do not wish to see the remnants of your meal get sloshed and squashed inside your unobstructed muzzle. I've seen giraffes on some late night nature programs eat more elegantly.
Yeah. Like THAT ^
I place people like this in the same category of Annoying Son Of A Bitch as people that carbonise their steak.
I mean my God, this is a beautiful, succulent piece of flesh, not a fucking marshmallow.
Thursday, 1 August 2013
Mainly for autocorrect. Duck becomes fuck and fuck becomes duck.
But it did make me think that Peking Fuck would be the greatest Asian porno film title EVER!!
Fuck off if it already exists - I like to think I'm original.
Wednesday, 31 July 2013
This is actually a really significant moment for a general shit kicker. It's that moment of "I'M A BIG BOY[GIRL]!!!"
Similar to the feeling of when you first move out of home and have a packet of Doritos and a litre of Grape Fanta for breakfast. Why? Because fuck you, that's why. Nobody is telling you any different. Or like your Dad giving you your first beer or buying fabric softener for the first time or realistically, when you've ever had the warm embracing rush flow through your veins (possibly Scotch-induced) when you get to utter the words: "Kids these days" for the first time.
Either way. You feel all growned up.
But going out drinking with The Chefs when you're a first year adds a lot of pressure, you feel like you need to perform. It's losing your virginity all over again except without the terrified 'other' who won't judge you because they're just as clueless.
These lot are experienced drinkers and back then, well, safe to say they made Charlie Sheen look like a Care Bear. First title: Chef de Partie. Second title: Badass Motherfucker. These boys should have put "8 years drinking experience" on their resume. The boys who had, "24 hours in a day, 24 beers in a case" as a personal motto. Drink to excess? They'll drink to anything.
I actually held my own against these boys. It’s nothing I’m overly proud of… But in a way I am. I was barely pushing over 45 kilos, I was this tiny, stressed frame of nothingness and I managed to swash down 5 pints. Don’t remember a fucking thing but somebody used my phone as a video camera so bada-bing bada-boom, we have evidence. It meant that I woke up thinking I had died after being dragged over 35 feet of partially set cement, but it also meant I got invited out every Sunday after that.
Anyway, we were out at the local after a busy night celebrating the fact that I made through an entire 4 hour service without fucking up (personal triumph if I’ve ever seen one) and a group of guys decided to pick a fight with them. No idea why. We’re talking about big hairy descendents of apes here. My Sous Chef was so riddled with muscles and evil glares that we used to call him Roidy.
Chefs in general are not the most elegant of goddesses. We’re rough around the edges, we swear, drink, fight, put up with intense heat, long hours, knives, oil attacks, live crayfish attacks, abuse - both verbal and physical, sexual, whatever. We get things like: “I dare you to fuck me?“ tattooed over our asses or some massive skull with a Shun going through the eyeball over our knuckles; why? Because we can.
But probably the most impressive feature in my eyes, you’re picking a fight with a bunch of delinquents resembling Early Man *cue ape noise*, who can hold a piss in for an entire 205 cover, 7 hour, Friday night service. Now I don’t care who you are, that’s Herculean.
So let me say this once again, you’re trying to take a stab at chefs.
I shall say this loud and clear.
WE FEEL NO PAIN!!
So safe to say the fight didn’t last long. There’s not really much to it when the people throwing punches spend their days thinking: “This fight was brought to you by the letter F and the number 3.”
One guy actually laid a decent punch on my pastry chef. I suppose he chose him because he was the skinniest but the guy was an angry, drug happy Cockney. This kid could fight with one hand when he was still being nourished by his mother’s boob. I reckon he could’ve taken on Tyson if he was in the right sedated kind of mood and Liverpool had just lost.
But my point of this story being: if you’re stupid enough to want to fight, at least be smart enough to know your opponent.
If they turn out to be a professional UFC fighter or an ex-marine, maybe think about backing off.
If they’re a chef? Well… There’s no maybe about it.
She said her hello then did the motherly thing of telling me I have something on my face.
Which basically resulted in her spitting onto her finger and trying to furiously discard it from her vision.
This case of 'problem solving' has the same mentality I see with people in public toilets... We know they're dirty but in our perspective, all germs and chlamydia-ridden bacteria will be discarded with an 8 second wipe of some paper towel...
She didn't succeed though. Because there was nothing on my face.
Turns out the bags under my eyes due to Chef-related sleep deprivation and stress, has an astounding resemblance to dirt or mascara leakage.
I just let my mother spit on my face...
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
Monday, 29 July 2013
If I'm ever walking down a street and realise I'm going in the complete opposite direction that I need to be going, some bizarre part of me can't simply turn around and double back. I mean, I'll look like a complete dickhead.
I have to check my phone or search through my bag or make some obscene arm gesture as in - "Oh fuck, I forgot that thing that was totally important!"
I really think I have too much time on my hands because the effort factor is increasing for every time I need to think of a new thing to have 'totally forgotten'.
Or maybe I'm just retarded...
Can guarantee everyone can find the Snooze button in .7 of a second, in pitch black from 4 feet away. First time, every time.
Snoozing Button Ninja Turtle.
This doesn't really bother me much as I use a transportation device called 'a tram'.
But today I am on their side. I saw a guy who had launched his car halfway up the curb, get given a ticket and the dickhead tried to dispute it with the excuse:
"Come on maaaan, I parked it when I was drunk."
I can deny the demise of the average IQ level of the human population all I want, it doesn't change the fact that my head is hurting from an overload of palm to face contact.
The hardest decision of my day is going to be what PJs should I change into, from the ones I am currently wearing.
Unemployment life has begun.
Sunday, 28 July 2013
Saturday, 27 July 2013
Am I the only one who sees the irony and inappropriateness in a "Keep Off The Grass" sign?
I mean, I'm a bad person because I had a really good giggle. But seriously.
Friday, 26 July 2013
I'm pretty fucking miserable before my morning coffee and on the train, I just want to sit back, relax, read my book and doze.
The last thing I want is to have the worst random train companion that you can have, with the possible exception of the dumb bimbo painfully asking why nobody has stopped Hitler yet:
The Heavy Breather.
It's like a missile being launched without the satisfying crash ending. Motherfucker, get that shit sorted. If I wanted my hair to blow like a fanned Victoria's Secret model I'd shove my face behind the exhaust of a car. That would be less irritating than your damaged windpipe that is clearly crying out for help.
Please excuse me whilst I shove my palms into my brain through my ears in my futile attempt to block this violating and opprobrious torture.
And someone totally just farted.
Because it seems like a constant recurrence where I have people trying to tell me how well they can cook.
.. Or how well their partner cooks.
... Or how well their Mum cooks.
I get it ok. You think you can do what I do. But do you want to know something? You can't.
There are countless differences between my cooking environment and yours. My kitchen stove top does not have a "Save As" button ok? If I fuck up in the kitchen that's it. There's no undo, there's no: "Oh well, the guests will understand."
Guests will NEVER understand. Nor do they appreciate that I can cook a steak to medium rare, every time. Because when my guest is paying 58 dollars for that steak, do you really think they're going to be satisfied when it's not right? A simple: "Oh that's ok love, medium rare, give or take a few degrees." They may as well be saying: "Here, while you're at it take my wallet and the keys to my Mercedes E350... And I'm an understanding laid-back guy, of course you may fuck my wife."
You just sit in your cushy little household kitchen with your nine hundred dollar Kitchen Aid that you have only mustered how to whisk in and casually stress over trying to pull the garlic bread up at the same time as Donna Hay's Pasta a la Primavera without everything going stodgy and cold for your 5 other guests who will probably still accept you at least as a casual acquaintance even if it is only for a Christmas party invite - sadly my reviewers are not the same.
I'll have seven pans going, three of them bipolar and temperamental sauces, two fish in the oven, a salad to prep all while watching the kitchen hand with one eye who keeps wiping the plates clean with a tea towel without actually washing them whilst not forgetting that table 7 is half gluten free even though it's not on the docket and 34, 17 and 3 are coming up on mains all at once because front of house are cunts.
No worries mate.
But it's even different for us chefs at home. I guarantee you when I make a meal it's all: "Thanks gorgeous girl, please pass the potatoes." But you bet your ass if my boy is cooking for me I better act like he's single-handedly built the Great Wall of China, blindfolded, with nothing more than a toothpick and some intuition.
So here's ChefTip Number 1: Putting a damp tea towel or cloth under a chopping board will stop it sliding around.
This was the first thing I ever learnt in a commercial kitchen. (Directly followed by being shown that 'cunt' is a way to express fondness and admiration). How to set up a chopping board. Simple. So, so simple.
This is quite a significant point of my life as a Shit Kicker. The first ever minute I was in a kitchen, the Chef asked me to set up a board and when I pulled it onto the bench he said, "Chuck a tea towel under it - it won't slide."
Since then, I have never set up a chopping board differently. Use it, cherish it, love it. It's a fucking great tip.
But as far as your Mum being the best chef you know, shush, just stop it. Your Mum might be the best cook in the world for sure. Hell, my mother makes the best Kangaroo curry I have ever tasted. And my Dad? Apple torte. I can guarantee you, it can't be beaten. So I do believe you when you say your half-Lebanese mother makes the best... I don't know, falafel. Whatever, my point is, they make it for you. They make it for your brothers and sisters and family friends.
They don't make it every single night, for 55 or 105 covers, plated perfectly, cooked perfectly, over and over, repeatedly and consistently - and fast.
My Dad can't do that. Do you know WHY he can't do that?
Because he's a fucking dental surgeon, not a chef.
Julia Child once wrote: "No one is born a great cook, one learns by doing."
I like that quote. I like to think that the techniques I have repeated day in and out for however many years, mean something. I like to think that what we do, is kind of like porn. You can watch it, be fascinated by it, it will entice your intrigue and tickle your curiosity - but try it at home, it won't look or sound nearly the same or as satisfying and majority of you are sensible enough to realise that it's probably not wise to try and act it out.
You can like cooking all you want, it doesn't mean it will like you back.
And it's the little things that make us different. For example:
I can chop without looking.
I don't follow a recipe. I laugh at recipes. I look at them, study them, then laugh at them and think: "Well fuck, that's not gonna happen, I'm doing it this way."
I can pick up a piece of confit duck with my bare hands. It doesn't bother me one bit, I lost all feeling in them years ago anyway. The sensation in my index finger is left with the skin that is now attached to the grill of my first job. There it shall remain.
We don't have Band-Aids, we have masking tape.
Where my palms once were, I now have scars and calluses.
I don't have an 8 o'clock reservation for two at a delightful little wine bar with my significant other, I have a second sitting, a headache and I'm running out of leeks.
Do you see me walking up to neurosurgeon suggesting that: "Hey, I played Operation as a kid. I can do this shit too."
No. I'm not that fucking stupid.
So please. Stop trying to patronise me and my fellow industry comrades by telling me you can do what I do. You can't. And when you try, you just look like an idiot.
When you try - you do things like go on Masterchef and I laugh at you.
Thursday, 25 July 2013
"You know why you're lucky to have small boobs darling?"
"Oh this'll be good. Why Mum? Pray tell, why?"
"Because if boys tell you that you have beautiful eyes... They probably really mean you have beautiful eyes."
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
"Arrrgh Tim! So messy after last night brah I actually shat in the shower!"
Me: "I think you have the wrong number, but I just laughed so hard I shot mango juice out my nose."
Reply: " <3 "
Pretty sure I have a new best friend.
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
The amount of mistakes I made, as a percentage, was ridiculously low. I owe this partially to never wanting to be told off (Apprentice mode in full swing), but mainly because I'm a bit blind and I study the dockets a little more carefully than most.
So today the Boss runs in:
"Chef!! Where the fuck are the risottos for Table 7?! Huh? You fucking around in here like a lazy cunt?! How far are they?!"
-breathe- Keep calm.
"Excuse me Boss but I don't have a docket for Table 7."
"Fuck! Chef, I haven't put it through!" (I fucking know this you dipshit, I don't lose dockets) "How quick can you do two risottos?!"
"No no Chef I need them now!"
"I need this favor come on help me out!"
"... 12 minutes."
"I'll give you the night off."
"... 4 minutes."
Don't fuck with us. Seriously people, be nice. It's only Wednesday."
Friday, 19 July 2013
Tuesday, 16 July 2013
Some of you may already know this, for others this might drop your jaw, or some might not give a flying monkey's butt fluff but either way, I am throwing in the towel at my restaurant.
It has been a very long, hard and fatigue inducing 14 months, 8 of which I have been running the show and I am both proud and ashamed to say, I am tired.
There are many jobs I can accomplish when I am either bored or unappreciated but very few that I can do when I am both.
Friday is Fight Night in the hospitality world so I feel that it only fair that I go out with a bang in full hospo style - on my knees in a pool of sweat and meat juice, prepared to get completely ass raped by a docket machine.
Friday, August 2 , I will prepare myself for a 15 hour day, at the end of which I will hang up my black jacket and wish them Adieu. As it will be my last shift, I am hoping it will be the biggest showdown my little two man show has ever seen.
I will be sad, happy, emotional, indifferent, hostile, shouty and probably a wee bit drunk (courtesy of the 15L goon sack that resides above the meat slicer). Hoping I can feel the heat and the adrenaline one more time, giving me burns I will never get rid of before I move onto bigger and better things.
Aaaand for the moment I am jobless scum. Assassin's Creed Day anyone?
Peace and fire. ChefLife.
Monday, 15 July 2013
Thursday, 11 July 2013
Wednesday, 10 July 2013
You get the idea?
:) The more foodie related the happier little Apprentice is.
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
Sunday, 7 July 2013
And chefs talk to themselves A LOT.
But I've also heard that people who talk to themselves make better lovers.
Did you know that? Oh why yes I did. Do you agree? Oh why yes I do, thank you for asking.
Saturday, 6 July 2013
Thursday, 4 July 2013
There are many different words for the good old 285ml glass of frothy bier.
Depending which state or even what country you're from.
You have the pot, the schooner, the middy, the half pint etc.
As a chef though, and being German Irish, we call it A Waste Of Time.
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
On a regular basis I both witness and experience the pretentious and mundane bitchiness that occupies 70% of the dribble that escapes the mouths of the women who unfortunately, make an appearance in my daily life.
Today I was on the receiving end of : "Ew, why would you want abs? Boys don't like abs."
Oh well heaven fucking open the skies and break my balls for I had no idea that my destiny was to fabricate the Stepford image of What Boys Want.
I do apologise for momentarily thinking I had a mind of my own -slap- silly silly girl.
Here's a thought, (define: thought: noun: an idea or opinion produced by thinking or occurring suddenly in the mind) could we all just stop for a moment and attempt to comprehend the idea that some women may just do what they do, whether it be diet, exercise, squats or read a fucking book, because THEY want to.
Oh wait, no no. I'm reading Tolstoy because that'll bring all the boys to my yard right? My milkshakes are clearly below par.
Just stop it. I'm not a feminist. But right now my anger management classes are the only thing keeping the royal bitch slapping I'm subjecting you to, at a purely mental state.
And just to completely contradict myself, I'm going to buy something deep fried and covered in chocolate in the hope that I can clot the part of my brain that wished people were simply happy for people who are happy.
Maybe I'll even turn it into a sandwich.
I'm allowed to be proud.
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
Chef's neglect a lot of things.
Clothes, health, relationships, personal hygeine, TV show committments, electricity bills... Pretty much anything that isn't our knives or our booze.
Hell even our shoes get flung in the dishwasher to be cleaned at the end of the night. I've worked as a kitchen hand long enough in my time to know exactly what one of those industrial bad boys can and can't do. A speck of dough will clog it up in a heart beat, leaving you stranded after midnight, poking at the plughole with the rear end of a whisk and a bit of initiative.
But it'll polish the fuck out of your clogs.
So I don't reckon I'll have kids.
I mean, I once killed a cactus. I actually neglected a plant that has been designed by nature to endure all forms of brutality and harsh environments, so badly that it wilted and died in my suburban setting.
I guess you can say I'm just playing it safe.
Boss was being an absolute dick to me yesterday.
So while he was at the bank, I synced our Spotify with my phone (with a little help from YouTube because I am technologically retarded).
Now every second song is either Shania Twain or Beastie Boys and for the life of him, he can't figure it out.
Man, I feel like a woman of the Intergalactic Planetary.
Moral of the story?
Be nice to the chefs. Even the slack ones work harder than your average Joe.
End of financial year.
I do apologise for that outburst. But if anybody here has ever had to do a manual stocktake of an entire restaurant (not forgetting that half opened bag of peppercorns at the back of the dry store at a whopping 170g or the 23g of bay leaves... Making sure you correct yourself with if that is a SINGLE unit of a straw or is a box a unit? - it is VERY important), you'll understand my anguish.
My ass "Chef's Guess" isn't an accurate form of measurement.
Is it wine time yet? Or does that also need to be deducted for tax purposes...
Welcome back to my blog :) it has certainly been a while since I posted and I want to sincerely apologise.
I moved away from the blog because I really didn't believe anybody but my mates were reading it... And, you know, Mum.
I flicked back on just now, as I couldn't sleep. I forgot to order veg and now I'm awake at 1:30am stressing about eggplants. Good one dipstick.
And my page has clearly been shared. I actually have readers? Again, I'm sorry for the shock of this.
I am fully signed on again. Ready and waiting to swear and yell and put shit in bold cos I'm a fearless bastard yo.
Dear Blog. I've missed you.
Thursday, 13 June 2013
Whenever I have to fill out those medical or safety forms for my workplace or... I dunno - ice skating (-insert confused look-) or whatever, in the part that says: In case of emergency please notify...
I reckon people should always write "My doctor".
Because realistically, what the fuck is my mother going to do?
Wednesday, 12 June 2013
I have never understood why women love cats.
Cats are independent, they don’t listen, they don’t come in when you call, they like to stay out all night, and when they’re home they like to be fed, given the occasional back hair brush and then left alone and sleep.
So... In other words, every quality that women hate in a man, they love in a cat.
Yet, I still love cats.
Tuesday, 11 June 2013
Monday, 10 June 2013
This week I'm sporting the Wookie Mating Call Chest Infection.
And whenever I'm a bit under the weather, I often get to work early and casually pace my way through the To Do List so that I have a longer but more leisurely day.
I can't even be a hypochondriac about it because there's antibiotics that cure just about everything these days. Not that I trust my doctor anyway. Her office plants are dead and she is the only person I know who doesn't have a "Sure Cure" for the common cold.
But hey, I'm not a fan of pharmacists anyway because I'm one of those little smart asses that goes in and says:
"May I please have a 24pack of acetylsalicylic acid?"
"Oh that's it, gosh I always forget that name."
Or I just scratch off the A and S and sell 'pirin' pills at Noizy for $25 a pop. (Thank you Birdcage for anybody that's seen it.) But it does make for a boring day if lunch is quiet. So instead of lounging around at a shrub-like level of lazy where instead of doing it myself, I'm more likely to stick my head out the car window and let the wind blow my nose, I thought I'd seek some entertainment.
Now, the Boss was in a particularly cunty mood yesterday. His wife's just had a baby and I don't think he's been sleeping much which to me, just screeeaaams out for me to be a raging little shit.
Chefs like pranks you see. It helps us get rid of the sweaty aftertaste that lingers from a stressful service. Plus there's nothing quite as pleasurable as seeing a bimbo maitre d' topple over because you've Vaselined her stilettos.
But I thought I'd share with you, my delightful giggle-inducing tricks that occupied my day.
WARNING: Unless you are at the standard of "married" relationship with your boss, I wouldn't recommend these. But my boss and I have been working together in a small environment for 60-70 hours of the week for the past year and safe to say, we know how to push each other enough to release the expletives but not enough to jump off the West Gate. But that is what will generally happen when you see your colleagues 60% more than any loved one.
I made a brilliant start to the day by expediting cold revenge on the complaints that had been thrown my way about my 'inability to efficiently label' my shit.
I Post-It Noted the bar.
Now, I don't mean I stuck a few around the place, I mean I saturated the fucker - including the fridge.
Every wine bottle, beer, coffee cup, the stapler, you name it, there was a note on it telling my dear boss exactly what it was and what it was used for. Took him half an hour to locate and destroy while I giggled my ass off from the back.
But to be slightly more subtle - I pulled a great little number on his laptop. Here's one for all you 9-5 office lads too.
I put a piece of sticky tape under the optical lens of the mouse. Just enough to cover the sensor. Or if you're really sneaky (like me), you do it when you duck into the bar to fill up your tea pot, after your boss has already been using it for an hour.
It was undeniably satisfying watching him slowly morph into a Gremlinesque physique and bitterly call everything in sight a cunt.
But finally, as my "Shit I hope I don't get fired for this" emotion peaked, I outdid myself.
I moved his car.
Not much - just one car spot over. Enough to make him think he was losing his shit when he went out to the bank. But of course, moving it back upon his return.
I know today will be payback day because I left before him and he was far too cheery saying: "Bye Cheffo, you have yourself a lovely night."
Oh well. You know those three guys in the Pepai ads?
Yeah, that was me.
Thursday, 6 June 2013
So. I've always been known for having rather creative and somewhat... 'colourful' insults that rotate through my daily vocabulary.
You kind of need it in a kitchen when you factor in that you call your line cook a cunt and your pastry chef a jail bait whore's love child on a regular basis.
My old Sous got called Faggot so much his nickname actually became Fags... And it just stuck.
The top five which are partly original, some stolen, would have to be:
- I hope your morning shit is in the shape of a pine cone.
- Your mum wasn't good enough to be a whore, just her secretary.
- Go sandpaper your ass crack by fucking a toolbox.
- Calling anybody a "training bra".
And my personal favourite, a gift from a girl I worked at the club with:
- Go deep throat a cactus.
But I may have gone too far today... On the tram. Some 15 year old sluz with her iPod in and her $10 Kmart polyester fluffy snow bunny hoodie pulled up, wouldn't give up her seat for this sweet little old guy that I helped up the stairs.
Now that just fucking shits me to tears. Get off your Maccas diet bum and give the man your seat.
So I asked her to move for him. It was obvious she wasn't going to. She just giggled with her friend and said:
"Sorry love, I gots a disability in my hip." -giggle giggle- (Don't even get me started on all the problems I have with that sentence - but seeing as I'd seen her bouncing around at QV Market, obvious reasons aside, it was a load of crap.)
Maaaaybe I was just in a bad mood. Maaaaybe I overreacted. But I stared this girl right in the face and said:
"You're the type of dirty slut that wipes ass to crutch aren't you?"
I got off at the next stop and left her with a gaping expression as I was hifived by a random.
I still see it as win.
Wednesday, 5 June 2013
Yesterday marked a very important day in my household.
In fact, a significantly emotional moment in my life I should say.
-wipes tears of happiness-
I got WiFi.
For the first time in my entire life, I have proper internet instead of rocking the Dial-Up.
No longer will I have to get up in the morning, make myself a cup of coffee and go onto myhomeclip to download the latest sexy amateur clip - before walking away saying:
"I'll see you after dinner baby."
This, is happiness.
I like to think I'm an intelligent person, at least for the majority of the day and only after coffee.
I like to believe that on occasion, I allow my education to abruptly get in the way of my ignorance and stupidity - in the form of a little old cranky lady with a lollipop sign in my head, screeching on her whistle to: "STOP! Think about what the fuck you're doing!"
Thanks little old lady, you've prevented me from being a typical bimbo who says things like : "A day without sunshine is like... Night."
Go me -waves tiny congratulatory flag-
But because I'm human, I do have my moments where thought becomes unfamiliar territory and somewhere out there, I am cruelling depriving a village of their idiot.
Times like when I'm at the supermarket and there's no self serve and suddenly have to live through the what should be relatively simple ordeal of purchasing my groceries.
Instead my mind decides to do a diagonal park in a parrallel universe and everything turns to shit.
It's a habit I'd like to kick... With both feet... In giant boots... Beckham style.
It's all going fine just gettin' some cheese, gettin' some fruit, swipe swipe swipe...
"Cheque, Savings or Credit?"
Every. Fucking. Time. I'll freeze up and stand there looking like someone who is dry reaching their vocabulary.
Come ooon! I've used the same damn credit card for 7 years! I KNOW this shit.
"Savings please. Wait. Fuck. Cheque. No credit!!! Definitely credit!"
Yeah that's cool you can give me a patronising little stare, I can hack it. Hell, I've once vomited out the door of the Night Rider, after requesting that the driver pull over along Burwood Hwy in order for me to projectile hurl the 12 Black Sambucas I'd slammed down at Wobble. There's not a lot of looks I can't handle.
"PIN or sign?"
"Errr... Um... PIN." (Fuck! What the fuck is my number?)
While I stumble through an attempt or two, I am fully aware that the cashier is yawning at me with an expression of: "Oh please, do take your time, I always yawn when I'm interested."
Lady, you swipe tampons for a living. Stop it.
Tuesday, 4 June 2013
Saturday, 1 June 2013
I like a boy in a tie. I think it's fucking sexy.
I'm not sure if this is because I'm attracted to class and a good dress sense...
Or if I just have this stereotypical Hollywood fantasy of pulling a boy in close by this tie and passionately kissing the crap out of him (cue seductive music and most likely torrential downpour on the eve of us departing our relationship due to... I don't know, military service or a fishing trip).
But knowing me, being the clumsy, depth perceptionally challenged individual that I am, (yes it's a fucking word because I said so) I'd attempt to achieve this and just smash straight into his head, concussing us both.
So in the event of me catapulting my chin into his nose, (for ego's sake) I'm going to choose to believe I am so good at subjecting someone's face to an onslaught of tongue violations, that it would be a kiss to make him see stars...
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
But back to my point - boys in ties, nom om nom om om.
Thursday, 30 May 2013
I just got called sexist after saying that I don't think eyebrow rings look good on girls.
Ok firstly, I hardly see how that statement is demeaning to women. I mean fuck, I'm saying a piece of metal shoved through the skin above her eyeball isn't to my taste - I'm not judging her ability to iron her husbands 100% pure Egyptian cotton shirt whilst simultaneously cooking a roast now am I?
And secondly, I know I dress a bit tomboyish but rest assure, I AM A GIRL!!!
What am I sexist against my own sex?
Makes NO sense.
I have discovered the four Metro Peak hours.
8:50am train : Plebs, Centrelink appointments and school kids who slept in, getting Mumsy to drop them at the station in their Range Rover that has never roved a range before in it's life. People who are 30% head, 10% brain and 60% giant Dr Dre headphone.
7:50am: The Suits.
6:50am: The "I must talk super loud on my hands free phone to invade everybody around me's personal hearing zone because I work far too hard to have the energy to lift my 140gram smartphone that probably isn't even out in Australia yet."
-snaps back to reality-
Getting up early has it's benefits. So much fluro... So many work boots and 2 day shadows...
Wednesday, 29 May 2013
I am slowly coming to terms with the fact that happiness is just a scale balance between expectation and reality.
You know, like going to the fridge for a midnight snack, thinking: "Ooh what treat awaits me!!"
And finding a red onion and a jar of mustard.
Tuesday, 28 May 2013
Or does anybody else get really self conscious when eating a banana in public?
I get really nervous when I start thinking about how long I'm taking with it too. I mean fuck, I want to eat the damn thing not turn it on.
Next minute I've pretty much given up on enjoying it and I'm shovelling it in so fast it's practically being enhaled.
I blame porn.
Sunday, 26 May 2013
To be honest, I've never understood leggings.
I never got the mentality of "Fuck yeah, let's show off the graceful silhouette of my ass crack today. Don the wife beater and have my Muffin Top hump my Box Gap at the intersection of Slutty Bum Cheek and Showing Slight Bit Of Ankle Road."
But at some point in the last five years, a demon Carrie Bradshaw rose up from the abyss and made them a trend, so now they're fucking everywhere and I jumped on the bandwagon, like a pleb.
"Hmm, how can I be a diamond grade, egotistical, exercise nutcase and show off to the world the fact that: Yeah, I Squat. Oh I know! I'll walk around looking like someone has dipped my bottom half in black varnish, leaving nothing to the imagination so through the mundane duration of walking down the street, the public can bear witness to the most intimate details of special spots."
That and every now and again I have the thought of: "Fuck pants. Seriously. Pants are just shit." This is undoubtedly followed with a flamboyant Quicker Than ChipnDales maneuver of removing said pants, an art form I have perfected to a 1.7second average.
It's not that simple.
Going out to buy pair number 7,000 yesterday, I stumbled. I went to Jay Jays because they're $20 and machine washable. (Single handedly the most important feature a garment can have for me and quite frankly I just can't keep dishing out the dollars for Black Milks).
Yep, cool XS that's the smallest size, try them on...
I am aware that I'm skinny, but I'm not THAT skinny. I have shape and muscle and definitely am slightly bottom heavy, owing the calves to The Boss who is pushing 6'7" and designed my kitchen making it impossible for me to reach the back of my oven without standing on my toes.
They were too big. Not excruciatingly so, just enough so that I can pull them up nice and tight and as long as I don't walk, breathe or make any sudden movement whatsoever, I can avoid having my knees look like a Bulldog's face.
So now my day is accompanied by the constant fucking stress of having to hitch them up - legs now looking like the transformation from Homer Simpson to Grandpa (See scene of the marathon and dehydrated Homer).
My point being - why was there no smaller size? There were plenty of bigger sizes... Seeing an XXL pair of black patent 'leather' leggings just made me want to screech: "NO! DON'T ENCOURAGE THEM!!"
Camel toe due to an overweight girl in yoga pants is actually a fear of mine.
I like leggings, but I'm sorry, unless you're Miranda Kerr and your 6 foot 100, slender, stilts of perfection are lickable and delicious, instead of resembling a large bratwurst with a kink in the middle - wear an appropriate top.
For example, maybe a long jumper? Or a singlet that actually covers the less than aesthetically pleasing curves of your rectum.
When worn approriately, (and I really should capitalise, bolden and slant the word appropriately) boys apparently like the cruel intentions of the designers from the Autumn/Winter 09 Milan fashion shows. Best thing to happen since women took up pole dancing as exercise. But for me it's like corset tops. They will not suck everything in and whoever told you that is a dirty liar.
But back from my rant to my problem, it makes me wonder where are the skinny girls buying their leggings?
And does anybody know a way I can shrink these up? Without resorting to eating lots of cake and burning my yoga mat.
Friday, 24 May 2013
I go to buy cereal and they don't have the one I like... But there's one there that looks kind of similar for the same price but with "25% Extra".
Ooh this could be good!
Get home. Cereal box is 3mm too tall for the shelf.
Fuck this shit.
Sanitarium, go snort a pine cone.
Thursday, 23 May 2013
Tuesday, 21 May 2013
On average, my Dad has six birthdays a year.
At least, that's how many times I use the excuse: "Oh sorry I can't, it's my Dad's birthday."
This is very rarely questioned, however it is occasionally met with a: "So? Dads don't care..."
"Oh yeah but Mum would kill me."
Well today is his actual birthday and I'd like to give a shout out to him.
To the smartest, (smart ass) most terrible joke teller and top bloke I know, Happy Birthday Daddy.
Thanks for teaching me how to throw a ball like a boy, how to play 500, how to win every fight by 100m and for getting me out of so, SO many events. (Still owe you for the World's Longest Lunch clean down where I left the mountain-like stack of dishes to the three boys on work experience.)
But by my records, it's pretty much Happy 108th!!!
Looking good for an old fart.
Love you x
People don't understand our obsession with knives.
My knife kit receives more attention from me than any pet, house plant or lover on any given day.
It is also worth, on average, 3 times more than any car I will ever own.
So the boss walks in needing to open a bag of coffee beans:
"Hey Cheffo, can I borrow your knife for a sec?"
Then whilst slicing through the tip of the bag, he cuts himself.
"Ah fuck! That's fucking sharp!"
"Yes. Yes it is."
"Well I didn't expect it to be that sharp now did I? Fuck that hurts!"
Monday, 20 May 2013
Thursday, 16 May 2013
Girlfriends of mine are always saying "Oh sometimes I just can't talk about my problems with my boyfriend. It's just not something that helps."
What the hell is wrong with these people?!
I tell my boyfriend EVERYTHING! Because at the end of the day, he's going to stand there and cuddle me, tell me I'm right, that I'm gorgeous, that I shouldn't feel bad and that everybody else is wrong.
If not because he loves me, then because he's in fear that I'll deny him sex.
Monday, 13 May 2013
So, I've been doing a fair chunk of exercise and eating heaps lately in the lead up to going overseas.
Basically shaking my metabolism out of hibernation so that I can sit on a beach and eat cheap noodles and drink even cheaper beer and retain what I consider to be a half decent Box Gap.
It sounds shallow, but I just worked really hard for it and I'd like to maintain the inch of abyss that lives below my special spot.
Now, I don't really fuss over the Gap. It's not like I believe if it suddenly wasn't there that my boyfriend would abruptly ditch me for a Miranda Kerr cardboard cutout and my friends would be utterly repulsed to the point of having to keep a ten metre radius from me to avoid projectile discharge and convulsions.
No. That's just silly.
It's not the Box Gap that's going to stop me from being a 65 year old with 17 cats and old episodes of George and Mildred recorded to my (now horrifically retro and outdated) Blu-ray player.
It's a tiny detail yes, that seems to probe a girl's brain. The same as boys and their physiques. Little do the boys know, although I hope that it will be apparent soon, that girls don't really care about the details of the masculine amenities.
It kind of goes from skinny, lean, average muscle, strange out of proportion muscle (usually footy players and their bicep curl obsession), muscular, baben, bit fat, fat.
I read an amazing quote from a random girl's blog I stumbled over that said "Girl's don't obsess about bodies other than our own, we don't stand around in public bathrooms together discussing 'Oh yes the dimples surrounding his elbow when he straightens his arm make my mouth water. Let me sex him all up and down and around', when in reality we're probably just talking about how penises look icky."
To be honest my boy doesn't even notice when I put on a bit of weight. I do of course.
They say it takes two weeks of a body transformation stage for you to notice, four weeks for close friends to notice, and eight weeks for everyone else.
So basically, eat a Maxibon and your boy is still going to get hard for sexy time.
-clap clap clap-
But point is, all this exercise and eating right and crap has got me quite frustrated.
Because the first thing I notice is that my ass gets quite tight and firm (*quiet squealing yay*) ... And my bra gets way too big (*facepalm*).
It seems I have to pick between the two. For fuck's sake, it took puberty 22 years to come out of the closet - MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND!!!
So whilst it's not an impending enslavement radiating through my daily thought process (to be fair, my brain can function for a full 24hours without thinking more than "hmm am I a bit hungry?" and "geez that wax job is itchy, fuck I'd scratch that if I wasn't in public), it still ticks my annoyance box. Pun not intended.
It's still like choosing which child you like more...
Saturday, 11 May 2013
The new trialling waitress just turned my kitchen Azmac compilation off that my cousin made for me and replaced it with The Best Of 90s Blues.
I have officially cracked the shits.
I have a full restaurant and in a wave of rage, hailed the Boss and as an overly exaggerated gesture of annoyance, put my flexible spatula on the pass, threw a pizza tray with the accuracy of a well trained tray-spinning machine and demanded it resume the speakers.
Being able to hurl any object using any utensil to any target within 5m with 100% accuracy is a skill every kitchen worker prides him or herself on.
Because let's face it. 8pm on a busy night when every cunt wants their food in and out with the speed of a prepubescent boy's orgasm at the sight of his first naked chick, you really need these kinds of qualities.
When I'm busy, I'm not going to say "Please excuse me Mr Kitchen Hand as I have a rather stingingly hot tray grasped within my hand, would you be so kind as to clear the landing as I carefully place it in the sink?"
I'm going to screech "Hot to the sink! Hot backs! Trays! TRAYS FUCKER MOVE!"
Before gracefully twirling the 11 inch piece of aluminised steel into the sink.
Watching a kitchen on a good night in full spring, is like a ballet... Or at least a really good amateur porno.
Honest to God it's a beautiful sight. The way chefs move and dance between each other. There is nothing more exciting than smashing a hard service with your best line cook beside you.
But anyway, back from my tangent - I cracked the shits.
Told the boss either Azmac goes back on the overhead, Newbie gets fired, or I quit.
Moral of the story. There are certain things you don't fuck with a chef about.
1. The location of their bin.
2. Their favourite utensil.
3. Their music.
Just remember. We are passive aggressive cunts with strong tendencies towards alcoholism and anger management with an array of hot, sharp and blunt objects at our conveniently placed disposal.
Don't, fuck with us.