ChefLife.

My kitchen hand said something to me today that I will never forget.

Pause for tangent. 

It's menu change week which means I have been spending the last month perfecting flavours to now, spending most of my time putting cold food onto plates, rearranging that food, taking photos of that food, forgetting to actually eat the food, then rearranging it on a different plate.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

I'm stressed. I'm losing weight and trust me, I don't have a hell of a lot to lose as it is. When someone as muscly as me hits too significantly below the 50kg mark, shits getting serious. Chefs don't eat meals you see. We graze like farm animals, so rarely achieving the privilege to sit down for a meal like a 'norm'. 

The importance of staff meal is very real to me. Your staff are your camaraderie, your troops heading into battle, your support system, your family. Hell you spend more time with them than your actual family - feed the fuckers.

I've been too preoccupied with my piece of pork belly and pine mushrooms to actually remember to partake in the staff meal, rather than just shoving it on the pass and shrilling the bell.

Yeah you fucking answer the ding now don't you Miss Waitress.

And because the dishes I'm currently dealing with are cold because *Hint Of The Day, cold food photographs better, my waistline and breast size is second in line after my prep to hit the chopping block. 

I'm sorry for whinging. I am probably just a bit depressed at the realisation that I am wearing the same sized bra as I did when I was 15... fml.com eat your heart out.

But my sleeping has become pretty erratic too. None for three days then a solid and sporadic 15 where a dump truck could flatten my living room and I'd still be happily snoring away. Insomniacs are the walking undead. We just haven't found the energy to create an apocalypse yet.

Ever since my boyfriend and I have been 'officially dating', I have been adamant that we coordinate our Zombie Apocalypse Survival Plans.

Pretty sure he went out and sourced some large inanimate object and a slab of beer - either way, in the event of an emergency, one of them will sedate me.

-clap clap clap-

But back to my point. Taking photos of artichokes had me nearly ready to tear my already thinning hair out.

My kitchen hand popped his head up from pretending to play plumber on the underside of the sink so that I wouldn't yell at him for doing nothing, to give me his Two Cents.

"It's the TASTE that matters boss. If I wanted a picture, I'd buy a fucking painting."

...

Keeping the chef grounded and sane whilst simultaneously scraping dough and burnt cheese off of hundreds of trays. Every. Single. Day.

My God I love him.

You can't ask for more.