Well, it’s ten months in, and my hands are getting good and ugly. Indeed, in a line cook’s world, every cook can identify another by the story written on his arms and hands.
“Dude, that’s a gnarly one!! How’d you get it?”
“Damn, that one’s gonna sting like hell when you shower.”
After missing pieces of fingers, peppered arms, missing chunks of fingernail, one eventually comes to accept these battle wounds as the mark of the industry. The symbol of time spent fighting, battling on the line. And with time, they become more of an afterthought, rather then potential girlfriend-repellant.
Indeed, every scar has a story, every horrifying burn is a lesson learned, every callous a measure of intestinal fortitude. But above all, each is a rite of passage. A badge of honor to be displayed to the general disgust of the public, but to the appreciation and delight of other cooks. And I wear the few I have with pride.
WARNING: Don’t click “Continued” if you have a) just eaten b)are a pansy. (Well…are you?)
Actually, looking back on these now…that is f*cking GROSS. Ugh…I need a beer.
3 Comments
left one looks like skin cancer to me.
dang dood… wear like skinny sleeves or something
funny, this is what you used to say about wushu scars; now i think you’re just a masochist
sexy.
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