Honestly it's honesty

It's come to my attention that a person can hate the job they have but not hate what the job is. The management of a place can suck to high hell but a person can still get an undefinable joy from the work and victories achieved.
I played baseball for upwards to 16 years of my life. I played a specific role on a team that was pertinant to my stature, speed, skill, knowledge etc. My team mates likewise had their respective roles. We depended and could rely on eachother without speaking or looking at one another for what needed to be done. We anticipated eachothers moves and were successful in many battles on the diamond against very worthy opponents. At the end of the game you always reflect briefly on the awesomeness that came from that game and then you celebrate. (Celebration rituals is a story for another day). There was always a dialogue of "ahhh man that one diving catch you made!" or "ahhh shit that bomb you hit!" and equally there was the "yeah you did fuck up on that ground ball but its all good we'll get it next time". We were a team.
I stopped playing baseball some time ago. I still pick up a ball and glove here and there but not like I used to. In a sense a hung up the gloves and traded it in for a knife. Yes a knife. I began cooking. And I quickly realized that the kitchen is dangerously similar to the dugout. The Chef is of course the coach. You have your GM's. The one and two hole hitters will be the runners and servers. Then you have your three hole hitter, your sautee cook, who you can count on for a base hit or a bottle of whisky. Your clean up hitter is your grill man who can be counted on to pummel a 200 cover night. 5, 6, and 7 are your pantry and prep cooks. They know the small game tactics of moving around quickly and being unnoticed but super productive. You forgot to prep something on your station? Send in the 7 hole hitter, he'll have it done in 20 seconds flat and hidden away so as not too upset coach.
No line is perfect. The kitchen will inevitably have its days when it damn near crashes. But the pressure in the bottom of the 9th is the adrenaline we thrive on. Yeah you might piss off the umpires and fans a little bit by looking like your not gonna produce but it's in these moments when the kitchen comes together to clean up a service and bring one home for the fans. When it's all said and done you look at your teammates with a look of "I don't know how the fuck we pulled that off but good job man" and you go out for the celebration after.
I like how the restaurant industry can confuse me into thinking I never quit playin ball.
One day I'd like to be a coach.

Nostalgia is the future

I think it's fairly evident, one can see, that the things of the past are making a come back in the interests of the youth of our time. Things like bikes, VCR's, polaroid cameras and any other old mediums of art, transportation and craft once again being the selected means of entertainment. It's just plain fun to use these archaic instruments. No other purpose really except if not just to say "hey look at this cool old shit I found". It would be the same as writing this post on a typewriter and making millions of copies and sending them to friends in the mail. Yes. The postal service. This is not say that new technology isn't extremely useful.
       So my point is that cooking is exactly this in essence. (at least for me) Being as I am a person that prefers and enjoys to do things for myself and with my own two hands, it's only natural that I should enjoy making (for all intents and purposes) a breakfast of fried potatoes and eggs and (if expenses allow) curing my own pork for bacon, over denny's. I love making an old recipe for a salad I found in a book with strange ingredients than settling for hidden valley's not so hidden pre-made dressings. It's a very primitive euphoria that I'm seeing in my peers is becoming more of a lost sensation. That's not my problem or place to argue with anyone, simply an opinion.
       This all being said, I have an inuitive real life expample to share to illustrate this point. Recently for the past two or three weeks I have been "staging" (I believe it's french for a sort of audition) at a restaurant in Houston called Feast. It's a small, I mean tiny, kitchen that boasts old English working mans fare. Lots of cured meats and a zeal for charcuterie. A typical day of work will consist of dry rubbing pork belly with salt, pepper, sugar, rosemary and some garlic. Breaking down whole ducks and renduring left over fat to preserve the meat in. My most recent endeavor in that kitchen was skinning whole pig heads right off the skull to truss up and be cured to serve as, what they call, "bath chaps". There is a reeeal evil delight in that duty. he he he. So far I haven't mentioned anything about cooking temperatures, or sauces, or actual heat applications for any of the dishes. That's because none of the above mentioned will even set in a hot pan until a week later after its cured and endured all the miracles of being pentrated by seasoning and spices.
         That which was a method of the past, is dope in the present.

"THe cook does not look upon himself as a servant, but as a skilled workman; he is generally called "un ouvrier" - Down and out in Paris and London - George Orwell