- Have a sense of humor about things. You'll need it.
KITCHEN'S CLOSED
MY HANDS HURT.
My feet hurt too, sticking out from under the covers, radiating pain up to
the knees.
Sunday morning at eight o'clock and I'm lying in bed after a king-hell,
bone-crushing Saturday night at Les Halles, making noises no human
should ever make. Just getting my Zippo to light takes three tries with
unresponsive fingers, a few muttered curses. I'm psyching myself up for
the long walk to the bathroom, an exercise I will no doubt execute with
all the grace and ease of a Red Foxx, and the further challenge of the
child-proof cap on the aspirin bottle.
I tend to get philosophical on Sunday mornings; it's an activity well
suited to my current physical condition, when even lighting cigarettes is
difficult, and the chamber-pots my brother and I would see in the old
house in La Teste sur Mer seem like an attractive and sensible option.
I got, finally, the hands I always wanted. Hands just like the ones Tyrone
taunted me with all those years ago. Okay, there are no huge water-filled
blisters—not this weekend anyway. But the scars are there, and as I lie in
bed, I take stock of my extremities, idly examining the burns, old and
new, checking the condition of my calluses, noting with some
unhappiness the effects of age and hot metal.
At the base of my right forefinger is an inch-and-a-half diagonal callus,
yellowish-brown in color, where the heels of all the knives I've ever
owned have rested, the skin softened by constant immersions in water.
I'm proud of this one. It distinguishes me immediately as a cook, as
someone who's been on the job for a long time. You can feel it when you