uwu yeah man I wanna be a pastry chef. Cookies and cakes and all that sweet deliciousness and isdfhoihgslkdhgl.
I actually get a little stressed out when there’s more than one person in the kitchen. I’m little so I bump into things/etc and don’t want to hurt the other individual. qwqÂ
Really? Hmm,
I liked the franticness, the heat and intensity, that urgent drive for speed with the strong undertones demanding perfection.Â
I like a crowded kitchen, it feels like a… a Dance! It feels like a dance trying not to bump into anyone or anything, trying not to get cut or burn when so close to the flames and the blades. ewe
I don’t like crowded things. I don’t like stress. I don’t like harming, even if it’s unintentional.
The way I cook is I’m in the kitchen, I have my recipe, I know what I’m doing and I know where everything is. Sure there might be more than one thing going on at once, etc, but…gh.
I don’t take things ridiculously slow, but super fast paced? Nooo thank you.
That’s kind of why I like working in industrial kitchens.
A La Carte is too hectic and frustrating for me (I tend to get incredibly aggressive in those environments)
Mine sites fit me well. I have 12 hours to work, as long as my job gets done in time, I’m pretty much fine, and on nights I have a lot of creative freedom. It is still hard  work though, and takes a particular type of person (I’ve seen so many chefs come in from restaurants and leave soon after because they can’t handle the volumes we produce)
The Most Beautiful Way To Stop A Bully I’ve Ever Seen
This is beautiful. It sums up perfectly what I have felt when it came to being bullied from elementary school and into junior high. I’m 25 now and the scars from those days have not faded. My self esteem sucks and I have issues with both trust and building relationships with others.
“I want to speak to a manager,” the middle-aged woman said in her stern I-used-to-be-a-soccer-mom-ten-years-ago voice, looking down at me over the top of her Gucci reading glasses.
A wicked grin split across my face and the gates of Hell opened up behind me, releasing a gust of hot wind that whipped my apron around my body and forced the woman to shield her face. Demons came forth, dancing around in flames with songs of, “She wants to speak to a manager. Did you hear that? She wants to speak to a manager!” before erupting into earsplitting shrieks of laughter, none louder than my own cackling.
I took in the woman’s look of utter horror before my eyes rolled back into my head and I growled,
