Scars

I was caught yesterday by one of my dishwashers. There had been a lull in the dinner service, and as I was washing my hands, I was inexplicably startled by their appearance. It was as though I had never seen them before and was now looking at them with new eyes. I suspect he may have been questioning my sanity as I stared, but I was fascinated.

As with any cook who has been in this business as long as I have, my hands are now spider-webbed with a network of burns, cuts, scrapes and scars, forever branding me as a dweller in ‘The Hidden Kitchen”. The rough, often-chewed knife callus at the base of my first finger. The slash across my left wrist from an awkward lemon zesting accident. (A tale that will be revealed in a future posting!) The missing section of fingernail, never to grow back, victim of a mishandled cleaver. And every last one of them, carried with pride.

It brought to mind a visit I had many years ago to a small museum that was showing an exhibition of Native American masks alongside N.H.L. goalie masks. There was one, that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. It had been worn by Boston Bruins goalie Gerry Cheevers in the 1970’s. He began each season with a plain white mask, but every time he was struck with a puck or stick, his trainer would paint stitches on the location.

Like this hockey icon, I wear my scars proudly. They are a constant reminder of where I’ve come from, and who I am.