what, pray tell, is that bizarre blip from a photobooth strip? why, that is me voguing my hottest cooking wound to date, in the style of flava flav revealing bling. it was a gift bestowed to me by a barbecue lid. i was really, really eager to get those ribeyes on the grill. it strikes me that when someone says "chef" there is an echo of glamour and precision, freshly starched coats and neatly pleated toques. to me, the word elicits a vision of thomas keller's kitchen at the french laundry, where the staff prepare gastriques and foams atop white linen (yes, it's true, they plate on white linen in yountville). that is why i will aways assert that i am a cook. a scarred-up, greased-up tornado in the kitchen.
don't get me wrong, i am an obsessive perfectionist when it comes to a finished product, but my road there can be a messy one. if i was sent back to the days of georges auguste escoffier i believe i'd be right at home in the grueling underground kitchens, poorly plumbed and all. i like the labor of cooking. i'm a junkie for the heat, the mess, the dangerous dance of multiple pans. one of cooking's most alluring qualities is the constant threat of total failure, meeting it with a devilish smile, and throwing yourself up to the flames.
notes
* the photo comes courtesy of the jennifer day & jeremy robinson nuptials. no one else was burned in the taking of this photograph.