it's like ninety degrees outside

I'm really stressed out.

It's the first time I've ever said it and meant it, I think. I may go and ride my bike in a minute, or maybe I'll just stay on the couch and try to relax for the rest of the night. I'll be up late, definitely. I always am.

Shut the fuck up, somebody's car alarm!

Okay, that's over. There just aren't enough hours in the day, you know? There really aren't. That and, the human body eventually needs to rest and recuperate. Those are the two obstacles in the way of my life right now.

The job is good, it really is. I'm perfectly happy with cooking twelve hours a day, coming in before I'm asked to and creating really great food. The food right now is amazing, by the way. We overhauled the menu completely this week, adding homemade pasta and replacing some of our simpler cut-it-open-and-grill-it dishes with complicated braises, involving pan sauces and some serious moves during, and before service. It's a lot of work. There's always something to be done, and when everything is done, there are things that you can do to get ahead for the next day. But I feel like it's worth it. The food is the most important thing. And the only thing I really know about food for sure, really and truly--more than I know how to caramelize an onion, or cook rice properly--is that it takes a lot of hard work and patience.

When that stuff is done, there's service, so you have to quit thinking about how much prep there will be tomorrow to run a constant set of priorities in your head for five hours straight. Can I send out these small tables before the twelve-top? Should I plate up all these tables at once, or stagger them? Did I fire enough chickens? Am I short something? Did I miss the temp on a steak, and need to pull one of my fucking magic chef's hat in thirty seconds? Did a server forget something, and do they need me to fix it?

Do customers know that if they want to write their own Goddamn menus, they can either open up their own restaurant or go to someplace that's willing to deal with them? No, we don't have any asparagus to substitute for the roasted squash! First of all, it's fucking October and asparagus are NOT IN SEASON! Second, the menu's on the front door. If you don't want to come in and let us serve you a nice meal that we've worked our asses off to prepare for you the way we see to be fit, being professionals, just don't bother. I mean, what the hell gives people the right to treat employees of the service industry the way they do?

Fucking god damn shit, FUCK!