I remember the first lesson from my first night working the sauté station in a restaurant back in Nebraska. I labored my way through prep, put on my white jacket and salt-and-pepper pants, and nervously readied myself as the first order came in. When it did, I grabbed my sauté pan, set it down on the cast-iron range, and asked our head chef how high to set the burner.
He just laughed, shook his head and said: “There is only on and off.”
Over time, I learned to love the thrill of four full burners, and how hot fat sounds like a hoarse yell as it sears its protein, and pots of thickened liquids, belching small bubbles of flavorless gas. Their contents rapidly reduce, daring you to look away for a moment so they can scorch and ruin the delicious magic that’s taken all day to achieve.
Pans sprint, pots marathon. It’s up to me to make sure they all hit the finish line at the same time. Coming down the stretch is a fight, but also a dance. At times, the food and I are at odds, wanting different things. At others? We work in harmony for the same goal, finishing simultaneously. At this point, the potential outcomes to consider are overwhelming. But then the moment dawns and thinking is useless. From that point on, the only thing that matters is action.
This is the moment when I whisper to myself: “Fuck it, let’s go.”
When the range’s burners are full, and people are hungry, my kitchen towel snaps a bit crisper, as it’s whipped off my shoulder to grab a hot pan. The tongs come alive, twisting like a cyclone in my right hand, as I open the oven door with the left. Sweat goes unnoticed until it momentarily comes into focus just before it smashes into the sauce/soup/mashed potatoes I’m furiously stirring. I no longer ruminate on what may need to be done—I just know what needs to happen.
The stakes aren’t the same when I’m cooking for one, in my own home. It’s just me, la-de-fucking-da. Admittedly, when I am pouring a thick chili from a pot to a crock pot, for a fleeting second there’s the chance that it could spill. The potential for pain may bring a flicker of excitement, but it’s just a cheap thrill. If I’m cooking something complicated, and there’s no one there to witness a possible failure, does success matter? Not really. It’s hard to be in the tall grass when you aren’t leaving your house. When I’m surrounded by family or friends, I’m accountable. It is that accountability that pushes me out of where I normally live: the fortified and familiar place in my head.
I’ve dabbled in baking. I’ve tried a handful of sous-vide experiments. They both remind me of homebrewing: calculated, deliberate, regimented. They both interest me on an intellectual level, but they don’t move me. I need to be somewhere alive. I need life that blisters and scars. I spend enough of my day-to-day trying to avoid doing something wrong; I need an outlet that lets me create something great. A time and place where I have no choice but to be confident, and for that confidence to result in decisions. It is working without revisions; when I’m cooking, my actions result in chemical reactions that can’t be changed. Any other time in my life, that’s not how I roll.
I don’t “fuck it, let’s go” in real life. In my job, social settings, familial, platonic, sexual, and romantic relationships, I double- and triple-check what I say and what I do against my past life experiences or stories I’ve gathered from others. These self-checks and balances are done in real time, and are often exhausting. Yet they are standard operating procedure.
I wonder what would happen if I did treat life like four full burners and a hot oven.
Different, probably messy, like the range when the heat’s been turned off, and the pots and pans are in the sink. Cleaning up is always my least favorite part.
Words by Mark Spence
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