I guess it was the exam that did it; the recognition that I am not as good as I like to think I am. That small things, like knowing the names of your ingredients, being able to sweat an onion or season some mushrooms are important. They are the bricks you use to build dishes. I often moan about the course and its composition (tomorrow I am poaching plums and making gingerbread!) But how can I really complain when I can’t even sauté some mushrooms when put under a bit of pressure.
And hence we come to the crux of the matter: pressure. I have spent most of my working life as a bookmaker. I knew not to stress day in and day out about winning and losing - that long-term trends were what mattered and what made you money. But the residual base from which the peaks and troughs emanated was one of very high stress. I swore every other word. I kicked bins. I chain-smoked, shouted, drank and gambled my way from one confrontation to another. I’d been out for a couple of months when I realised that I hardly ever swore anymore. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but I was swearing a lot less. And drinking less too. I was calm and happy and at peace, with myself and the world.
I probably first noticed it a couple of weeks ago. The superfluous fuck and fucking slowly inveigling their way into the most passive sentences. I am stressed. The exam was a case in point. I have never really worried about exams, interviews, anything like that. Know what you need to know. Have your mise en place, be calm and confident, and never write or speak without thinking first. So what happened on Friday then? I didn’t know what I needed to know, and when the chips were down (well the mushrooms actually) I acted without thinking.
Maybe it is because I have cooked at home for so long. Here, you need to keep your brain engaged all the time. It is so easy to lose a moment’s concentration, or to be flippant or casual with ingredients or seasoning, and you are fucked. On Friday the pressure was obvious, and when I knew I had to be on top of my game, I wasn't. I’m not used to this, even less so to admitting it. But I am only halfway through, and I have six weeks to turn things around. The swear jar will tell me how I’m getting on.
It’s not all bad though. The weekend has been fun. Dinner and a few beers on Friday, a trip into Cork Saturday followed by a Halloween party in the Blackbird in the evening. I don’t normally go in for fancy dress and all that, but everyone got involved. My Scream mask was pretty lame but I backed it up with a wife beater and some drawn on Bogan tats. I especially looked the part since I’d just got a haircut from some Japanese dude who didn’t speak any English and clearly misunderstood my instructions, thinking I’d asked him to make me look like Jake Gyllenhaal’s character in Jarhead.
I might be swearing a bit more than I was but I still get glimpses from time to time of how much has changed in the last couple of years. Driving back from Cork on a dark and winding country road some boy racer tailgated me then overtook on a very short stretch. I saw his lights approach in that menacing rush. I knew instantly what I would have done. Wait. Drop it into third. Wait a bit longer. Then, just as he starts to make his move, drop the pedal and fuck him off out of it. But I didn’t. I pulled over a bit more to give him room and let him right on by. He must have been in a rush, poor guy. He probably had some plums to poach when he got home or something. Or, worse still, maybe his wheels were coming off.
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