Oh Lord was it hot. I had been dreading going to school (for the first time in seven months) because we're currently smack dab in the middle of a terrible heat wave. The kitchens are usually pretty hot on a normal day, and I could only imagine what the inside of the school would feel like, considering the concrete jungle was reaching 100˚F (ED. NOTE: Remind me why I live in a city with limited public swimming pools??). I dragged myself through the dank ovens of the subway system all the way downtown, and practically crawled the three blocks to school. I grudgingly threw on my uniform and made it to class just in time for roll call. The minute I entered the massive Level 4 kitchen, normally temperature regulated (READ: Neither hot nor cold), I knew it was going to be a long night.
I got started on a big fruit salad for Family Meal by breaking down a cantaloupe, honeydew melon and a very large watermelon. Before I knew it I was elbow deep in a light pink sugary serum, which was mixing well with the salty sweat forming on my arms. As I was slicing and dicing, placing the fruit cubes in a large hotel pan on the table next to me, the pile didn't seem to be growing. I soon figured out why: for every handful of cubes I placed in the pan, there was a line of students, staff and chefs rushing behind me taking one for themselves. Bullcrap! I started handing out dirty looks, but I don't think that helped much. Boy…in a school where cleanliness and hygiene are drilled into our brains I sure found a lot of people willing to stick their grimy hands into the community fruit bowl.
Forty five minutes into class, the heat was unbearable. I know I like to exaggerate about my glasses falling down my nose, but seriously…they were literally falling down my nose. I was also soaking through my undergarments and felt the unmistakable horror of realizing for the first time that something unidentified is running down your leg. Not cool (get it?). I resorted to my only remaining option…
Before I go on, I need to explain that I can be a little…particular?...about certain things. For example, when I lay my head down at night, all of my hair must flow out behind me so that no strand exists between skin and pillowcase. I am also particular (yes, I've determined that's the appropriate word) about getting strands of my hair wet when the rest of my head is dry. Example #2: When my dear husband puts sunblock on my back and neck, he is immediately warned, "May God have mercy on you if you get that in my hair." He knows the rules.
So, back to live action. I was desperate for some sort of relief, and I knew it wouldn't come in the form of a high-powered fan blowing air imported from the Tundra onto my face and neck. I decided I had to do the one thing I thought I would never do: I went to the bathroom, removed my neckerchief, soaked it in cold water, placed the dripping cotton back on my neck and tucked it back in my uniform. It worked like a charm. It was like going to a new restaurant that is half the price of your favorite joint yet ten times better; "Why didn't I do this before???" Noted.
After I got over the initial skin-crawling that naturally comes with stepping outside of my OCD box I felt much, much better. I even splashed my face with cold water and my glasses seemed to stay on slightly better. I guess that's the trick, so I'll remember it from now on as we fight through a record-breaking summer in the heat of FCI.
We were serving chicken fajitas for dinner, so I was tasked with grating a massive block of cheddar cheese that was a little larger than my head. As I've done before, I grabbed the box grater, broke the block down into several manageable pieces and started working. I had one corner of cheese left, a mere eight ounces, when chef walked by: "Why didn't you just use the grating attachment on the food processor? It would have done all that work for you…" I paused what I was doing, took a deep breath and continued on my way.
This evening I stopped by the Kmart in the East Village to pick up a few essentials. Like the other young professionals around me, I passed a homeless man sitting up against the wall talking to himself. I got a few steps away before I heard him screaming something about "Hey lady!" or something to that effect. I gave the girl next to me one of those, "Gotta love New York" looks, and then suddenly realized, with much surprise, that he actually wasn't yelling at me! I looked back, and he was verbally assaulting the girl walking a few feet behind me. Wait a minute…why wasn't he threatening to kill me? Is there something wrong with me? Why don't I deserve to be verbally assaulted by a stranger at 5:30pm on a Thursday? What makes her better to be threatened by a homeless crazy man on the street than me? Do I not look like I can handle it? I knew this dress made me look fat. I was genuinely offended, until the man moved on to a 30-year old guy in pink Chuck Taylors, to whom I think he yelled a phrase containing "Sweetheart." Maybe next time, amigo, maybe next time.
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