Rudolph the red-nosed cook.

Ohhh... Day three was a very special day - in a lot of ways.

I was asked to come in later because we would be leaving later than usual that day.

I walked in to the main kitchen and was greeted by the dear Spanish speaking co-workers.
"Hola, Lauwra! Como Estes?"
"Hola. Bien!"
"Hablo Espanol?"
"Noo...So sorry, guys..."
"Ahhh... Haha."
"Where is SC?"
"Oh, she outside, loading up."
"Thank you."

The Mexicans are a mess of trouble (in a light-hearted way, of course). Always calling A "gordo," the friendly use of the Spanish word for "fat." (A could stand to lose a few pounds and knows it) A is good-natured and loves that the Mexicans walk around blaming everything wrong on "that gordoooooo. Is his fault!" I do not envy their "love pats," where every time they pass by A, they smack him on the back or shoulder or...wherever is convenient at the time.

I digress.

I found SC unloading a cooler and going down a checklist to make sure everything for the purple event was together, everything for the yellow event was together, everything for the blue, the green, etc. This took a good long while, as some things could not be pulled out of the cooler until time for it to be loaded in the truck for the event.

When we finished pulling and checking, I went to help A make hot spinach dip and grits...
Small task? Not at all.

Seven gallons of dip... After rinsing and draining and squeeeeeeezing every last drop of water from seven large bags-worth of the formerly frozen spinach, my hands and arms were rather tired. No rest for the weary, though. Time to stir the cream, roux and cheese together for several minutes...

then add in the spinach.

Yay! After all was mixed, it was stirred several more minutes and put in two four-gallon thermoses and sealed very tightly.

Next? The grits. Ohhhhh the grits...

Grits and I have been best friends for years. I love a nice warm bowl of grits with a sprinkle of cheese and whatever other topping I desire.

A and I started boiling milk, butter and water in two different pots for 11 gallons of grits. Once the grits were poured in, my duty was to stir, stir, stir for 30 minutes solid. I began to stir with my giant whisk and quickly realized I needed a stool to stand upon so I could actually see over the rim of the pot. So, we made a makeshift stool.

(it is difficult to see, but I am standing on a stool made of cola crates)

A warned me that the grits would soon begin to pop and possibly attack my arms and scar me - if I did not put on oven mitts up to my elbows. I promptly wore the mitts. Stir…stir…stir… My hands were getting sweaty and hot inside the mitts, but I continued on, keeping as much of myself as I was able away from the mouth of the pot. After several minutes of stirring over heat, this mythical popping was no longer a myth to me. Bubbles furiously rose to the top of the pot and, in my carefulness to protect my arms, I was attacked right on the tip of my nose.

“Tssss.” I could hear the grits singe.
“YeeeeeeOW!”

I did not pay close attention to it, as I had other business to attend to. The grits would not be burned.

One of the Mexicans came over after a while and took over for the final hoorah of stirring, and I touched my nose to see if it still burned. Cutting out the gruesome, my new nickname was “Rudolph.”

All the grits were poured into thermoses and sent to the vans.

With a little bit of clean up, my work at the kitchen was finished. As I was walking out the door with the chefs, one of the Mexicans grabbed my hand and lifted it high into the air, as one would a victory…raising. “Lauwra not burn pot! She numbah one! Gordo always burn bottom of pot. Gordo numbah two!”

Ego boost? Yes. But after burning my nose with grits, I didn’t mind the bit of encouragement.

After the food was all loaded up, A and I headed with C to his house for a break between shifts. Later, we were to go to a venue to cater a rehearsal dinner.

At C’s house, I met his lovely wife, his hyper puppies, and his babies (aka: dirt bikes and caving gear). [I am determined to find the link between chefs and extreme/ stupid/ dangerous sports. There seems to be one.]

After a quick rest at the house, we all left for the evening’s event.

Plated, seated dinners are the best. *smiles*

Between a mix of work and chatting, we set up the food, served it up and left.

My favorite thing is having a clean-up crew.

One thing I am incredibly thankful for is the staff that embraces me and is patient with my slowness. SC always lets me shadow her and teaches me the ways of the kitchen. Oh, what a vast world of knowledge and talent she holds…