Tag: cooks

Cheffing In December is like…….Death warmed over in a microwave

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(Warning, story contains actual chef language containing both fowl and foul words some may find offensive and shit.)
Here we are embarking on another “holidays” season. Up here in the NorthEast its shrinkage weather. In the morning, I open the front door and if there is immediate shrinkage, I know to dress in full winter weather regalia. Soon after Thanksgiving festivities have come to a trytophanic end, the Turducken Football OD is over, and Alice’s Restaurant has played on the radio, its time for the annual MMA Shopping event Black Friday. That can only mean its time for chefs everywhere to prepare for December. Radios everywhere will play the same tired songs they have for the last 200 years, stores and malls open extra hours for extended full contact shopping, and we make lists of who we need to tip, who we need to get booze for, and who to buy gift cards and presents for. One of the worst examples of our inhumanity in this time of supposed brotherhood is the perpetual argument over how to greet each other. Ho Ho Ho, Merry Christmas chef, Happy Kwanza chef, So how’s your Hanukah going chef, hey chef, cheers, happy holidays.

Christmastime, Kwanza Season, Hanukah, Holiday season, Winter Wonderland, Noel, No Hell, give it whatever name you want but to a chef its more of a suicide/homicide countdown. It takes all of what’s left of our strength to not kill ourselves, or half the staff working for us. In the prime of my career December was the darkest most evil time imaginable. The December Kitchen wears a hockey mask to cover a misshaped face full of scars and zombie eyes, has hand of metal serrated spikes, carrying machetes, axes, and chainsaws. December cheffing frightens the hell out of any seasoned or marinated chef while sucking the life blood out of all the kitchen workers all over the country. While others argue and bicker over whether to say Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays a chefs answer would be about 20 decibels higher and sound more like, CALL IT WHATEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT YOU JINGLE FUCKING BELL LAME ASS MENORAH LIGHTING LIMP DICK HALL DECKING KWANZA DANCING SANTA FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT AND PICK UP TABLE 15 NOW!!!

Yea that’s right, while party revelers are getting drunk, having affairs, doing lines in the bathrooms, and being absurdly ridiculous because of the intake of massive quantities of alcohol, the chef is screaming at the perceived incompetence of workers who are actually stressed and stretched beyond human limits due to the massive pile of work assaulting them. In between his vociferous beration of anyone in sight the chef is sweating and working his ass off. Every morning we need to go to the ass store to buy a new ass to replace the one we broke the night before. So many holiday parties and so little time to get them done in!

The month of December is indeed physically taxing which is bad enough, but it is also super hard on the chef’s family. Communication is reduced to post it notes and telegrams to and from the spouse, swatting at the kids like they’re flies when they jump on the bed and interrupt your one and a half hours of sleep you‘re alloted, and calling Mom and Dad just so you can catch a nap on the phone while they catch you up on the latest afflictions and maladies they suffer from. “So Pops, how’s your arthritis been lately?…..zzzzzzzz. You learn to sleep in the shower during the rinse and repeat cycle of shampooing, you grab your clothes and hope they match because your eyes aren’t open enough to see them, and you eat standing up so you don’t have to take the time to digest. Let gravity work on the digesting, chef’s have more important things to do.

If your lucky like me you get to take mass transit where you can catch a long nap. But beware, often a nap will last four stops past your destination setting your day back before it even begins. Or you may wake up from a nap in a panic and get off thinking your past your stop only to find out you still have six more stops before departing. Or maybe you ease into a decent sleep only to be startled awake because a jolt of fear split your head open thinking you may have forgot to order that 100 pounds of shrimp for tonight that was ordered last minute yesterday. And yes…every one of those scenarios has happened to me at least once while December cheffing.

I don’t want to make it sound too grim, there is a bit of a perk. Everyone and their mother wants to let you know how much they appreciate your cooking so they bring you alcohol (or whatever may be your pleasure). But even that can be a negative perk at times. Like when someone sends a glass of wine to the chef in the middle of service because they’re partying and feeling really good, and generous. Of course the wait staff neglect to tell the patron that the chef is a bit off balance because others have already sent in shots, beers, and drinks from other happy patrons knowing full well the chef is burnt out and at the mercy of not having the will power to say NO THANKS to a bit of happy juice! Instead, its pond this shit down and get back to the heat of the heartless oven.

Yes my friends, December cheffing can really shred ones world apart but thankfully it only lasts until the final push of the year, new Years Eve. That’s the night chefs get to hear every non working person in the world shout in drunken stupors “Happy New Year!!!” while the chef silently says to themselves, Fuck YOU! So this year, while you are out partying and carousing and carrying on all over town celebrating whatever the hell it is you call it, take a few minutes out and thank a chef for all the sacrifices of cheffing in December….Peace

The Imagination Generation cooks, or Culinary Revolution For The Hell Of It

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Food glorious food, We’re anxious to try it. Its what’s for dinner, whether cool as a cucumber or easy as pie we love our food. Food has been essential since time began. Without food the world would be full of nothing but vegetation soaking up the sun’s energy creating oxygen for no one. But as it is we have a symbiotic relation with vegetation. Animals (including us) eat the greenery, digest it, then return it to the plants as composted food for their roots. So we all benefit from the cycle of life because of the cycle of food. Food has always existed even finding its roots in the garden of Eden. Yea, the forbidden apple the iSin that was as they say the fall of man. More like the rise of man which is why so many of us get hungry after sex. Food has had major impacts to the growth an development of all life, especially humanity. Whether it was chewing the leaves of tree’s or the capturing of some animal we survived on food. Food was so important to our development it can be attributed for the creating of societies. We formed tribes to both procure and protect food sources. With the advent of the agricultural revolution food became power. Whomever controlled the food controlled the masses. Humans learned to grow vegetation at will, capture and herd animals for milk and meat, and create warehouses to store food. At one point food was worth more than money. Why in ancient times you could by a chariot polo team for a few cases of wheat, a six pack, and a cow. Brothels accepted loaves of bread for making it rise and it gave cause for a new phenomenon arose, thievery. With people stealing food from one another and beating each other up or killing for food an important new force needed to be created. The police force formed in ancient Athens where the policeman were paid in what else? Donuts. The police eventually evolved into armies which as Napoleon so eloquently put it, marches on its stomach. He reportedly always hid a taco inside his coat which is why so many photos show him apparently holding his stomach. But that was then this is now, and now it costs a lot of money for a small amount of food. But we pay it because not only do we need food, we friggen love to eat. Home or restaurant, no difference, bring on the food.
Why do we love to eat so much? Properly prepared food can fill us with a plethora of wonderful emotions which is one reason we love to go to restaurants. What is a restaurant? Originally the French term for restoring it referred to the hearty soups that were said to restore ones health. What a great concept, a place to sit, eat, and converse in a Nice setting. Or was it Paris? Whatever, the concept gained ground and a new industry was born. Forks and knives, chopsticks, or fingers, food was bought prepared and served the world over and Auguste Escoffier took it upon himself to develop recipe systems and a set of basic tenets for cooking. That was the late 18oo’s and those laws stood firm for almost a century. Red wine for meat, white wine for poultry or fish (Pick your Poisson). Everything served within the lip of a plain white plate. Everything was standardized right down to the size of cooking utensils. This worked well for many years until a new generation grew up and took over the sauté pans. The imagination revolution was about to break the restaurant industry wide open.
Like most of my generation, I colored outside the lines on purpose. But some of us took it even further, like coloring the tree’s blue instead of green, or making the sun magenta because the word on the crayon looked cool. I was particular to periwinkle myself because I not only did it look cool, the name made me chuckle. It was one of the only crayons that made a daily appearance in the cheesy crayon sharpener on the side of my 64 color box of Crayola. That was the first known instance of thinking outside the box. We were the generation that would stretch the limits of imagination like silly putty, make it bounce around like a superball, and allow it to take flight from balsa airplanes, to water pump rockets, all the way the flying saucer Frisbee. Our entertainment was just as far out, with uncles who are Martians, talking cars, nose twitching good witches, and pretty genies in bottle seemingly common place events an acceptable. We even let our imaginations allow us to believe that a movie star on a three hour boat tour would bring an enormous change of clothes, and once stranded a professor could invent everything on a deserted island except a workable raft. Our minds were open and free and TV opened many dialogues on previously hushed or taboo subjects like racism, drugs, and the all time favorite, sex. It’s the generation that looked to the moon and said lets not just look at it but lets go there and find out if there really is any cheese, let not have a small concert lets have a festival for half a million. It was only a matter of time before some of these new forward thinking creative out of the crayola box coloring kids would grow up an become chefs of the future. Ha Ha.
And we did. The first thing the rebel imagination generation of cooks did was disregard all of Escoffier’s rules. No disrespect sir, your shit was incredible, but we are in the age of culinary renaissance and it was up to us to disregard the rules, deconstruct everything that had been done for so many years and color outside the roasting pans. Sauté the red snapper, throw in some shallots and fresh thyme, hit it with some pinot noir and deglaze. Finish with a touch of fish stock , pinch of cream, and spoonful of raw butter and man oh man you have one tasty ass snapper with a buerre rouge. Red wine and fish?? Blaspheme! We broke all the old rules, decorating our plates with fresh herbs, making wines work with anything, rare duck breast, barely cooked or half raw foods, crunchy veggies, nouvelle cuisine was taking its stand against the old strong brigade system of cooking. Women washing the pots and pans? Bullshit ladies, come on inside the kitchen and show them what kick ass chefs you are. The old regime cringed, knocking the cigarette ashes into their sautoise pans. Sacrebleu, what are zose crazy long hair chefs doing? And what kind of cigarette is zat they smoke? Sorry Charlie, but revolutionaries only want the best tuna, served mostly if not entirely raw. Salads took center stage as entrée’s with hot meats served over them. The imagination generation turned the culinary industry on its pigs ear. Sweetbread day in the morning we kicked some ass back then!
Now I watch proudly as a new generation of rebel chefs begin to take their place in culinary history, sustainable food systems, farm to table programs, and molecular gastronomy are the next new wavers an they have been doing a tremendous job. Women have made their major impact on the industry an in an ever evolving world its up to them to keep our interest in dining, not just eating. Personally I think the industry is in great hands, hope its no0t just my imagination

I Think There’s A Rat In This Bitchin’ Kitchen

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Pot Sink Diaries
I stood proudly over my pot sink ready to clean anything and everything the chef could throw at me. Literally throw. My gastronomic voyage had officially begun and I dove in to the trip with a work ethic beyond reproach. I scrubbed and cleaned pots and pans until my fingers acquired the same status Mother Nature naturally assigns to prunes and raisins. I happily scrubbed and mopped the floors, scoured the ovens, and enthusiastically awaited orders from ….well just about everyone else in the restaurant. No worries I was willing to perform any thankless task sent my way. This night I learned about one of the mysterious qualities found in any great chef. A great Chef has the keen acumen of understanding the dynamics of the driving desire of a young pot washer’s eagerness to please. Jimmy picked up on this rather quickly informing me of a special “time” in restaurants, a time when things were “quiet.” He called it “downtime”. Downtime sounded harmless when I first heard it escape from Jimmy’s lips, and I thought it might be cool. JT my boy” came the words from my illustrious leader, “Ees a little slow tonight. Looksa like a we have some downtime.”
Well I could barely contain myself. An opportunity had arisen for me to show everyone how gracefully I would be able to handle this newfound downtime. It never occurred to me that the word itself could enlighten me as to what may be in store. The Chef planned to put me “down” and keep me “down”, by assigning me an assortment of unmemorable chores that will get me down in the dumps. As for the “time” portion of my endeavor, it actually meant time consuming. Flagrantly left out of the phrase was tedious. It should be called tedious downtime. This inspirational portion of the evening I get to perform seemingly insignificant time consuming tasks. There are various levels of joy associated with downtime tasks. It could range from the somewhat mindless variety peeling 50 – 100 pounds of potatoes, to the absolute joy depleting role of shrimp peeler. Peeling shrimp is somewhat misleading as well, because chef hands you a ginourous pan of shrimp which you are require to clean. Remove the outer shell, put a lice sown the back of the tine morsel of future deliciousness and remove the incredibly objectionable digestive track that looks like small black sludge. Then rinse it and ass it to the other couple hundred shrimps. How many shrimp can people eat anyway. Don’t they know you are what you eat? Inclusive of all these food related tasks, are a mysterious set of non food thankless jobs given the official name of maintenance. I say mysterious, because I could never figure out how washing the Chef’s car in any way contributed to the dining experience. But wash it I did, along with every piece of kitchen equipment, and every floor within a 5 mile radius. On this particular evening, I was mopping the downstairs. A serene and peaceful place where all foods and food products reside to meditate. They remain at the Storage Inn, a kind of bread and breakfast for the grocery set, until they are summoned upstairs to become part of something monumental. In a back room, seldom used, was where I was sent. Upon arrival, my keen observation noted two non-moving members of the family rodentia lying on the floor. Damn they looked gross. Summoning all my energy to keep my dinner where it belonged, I walked into the next room and informed Edwin, the Chefs nephew or “senior potwasher” whose true job and intellect were yet to be determined. He was however, my supervisor and assisting me. His having been here so long gave him a queer aura of authority. “Hey Edwin man, there are two dead rats in the extra room.” Edwin’s English was worse even than Jimmies, and he just repeated what what what and stared at me puzzled. So of course I motioned with my hands as I said very slowly, for some reason believing that would help him understand, “Next ..room….dead ..rats, two of them!” This is too fucking tedious, and I needed a cigarette so I lit up and walked into another room to chill. Seconds later I heard a blood curdling scream followed by a pounding of wood to wood. I ran to Edwin fearing the worst and there he was still screaming and beating those two already dead rats as if they were zombies. Hard as I tried, the sight of Edwin clutching a broom and beating the shit out of two dead rats took over every rational bone in my body and I broke out in a laugh so fricken hard if Jimmy and Didier had seen me upstairs they would have felt like rank amateurs. Tears forced their way across my cheeks like rivulets of saline. I had to hold my stomach and fall to the floor in an epileptic fit of uncontrollable laughter. To date this may have been the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life and I wasn‘t even high. This is restaurant life. Now my mood was great. Hope it lasts.
Just when I thought Ed couldn’t make me laugh any harder he moved into action. At first I was repulsed and grossed out to the max. With his bare fucking hands he grabbed one dead rat in each, looked at me with a dopey smile that had me wondering if he smoked my hash as he said, “Come witta me JT. We godda bigga sue-prize forra da cheff.” With the rats dangling at his sides he climbed up the stairs like happy from the seven dwarfs. When he reached the top he made room for me to stand next to him and he held these two dead god damn rodents as high as his arm would allow and yelled loud enough so the entire kitchen could hear. “Hey Cheff…..Lookit a what we gotta for you soup!” As the chef and company began laughing wildly I looked on in horror. “Jesus shit Ed, you can’t bring thee disease ridden mother fuckers in a kitchen!” Mortified I looked around and everyone was laughing except Laura. Oh Jesus I thought, she’s the only other one grossed out besides me. Jimmy yelled back, “getta Jense inna here, we gotta special entrée tonight.” The laughter continued and Edwin took the rats back downstairs’ and no sooner did he get to the bottom when he tripped and fell letting the rats fly in the wind. I ran down to see if he was okay and he was frozen on the ground looking up in horror. Across the room was our illustrious asshole manager with a face so red I thought the beets were embarrassed. Over one shoulder a dead rat, the other at his feet. His eyes were exploding volcanoes and if had found the dignity to speak it would have flowed a molten lava of pissed off. I had to leave because my head was about to pop from not laughing at the sight and air was forcing its way through my nostrils. I knew if I let my tears of joy flow I would have lost my job, and I was thinking Edwin may already have lost his. I will never forget the look on Didier’s dead rat slapped face.
Damn that was a rough night I thought as I stopped at the corner of my block that had once served as my bus top. I reached to the bottom of my front pocket and pulled out the tiny piece of aluminum foil Ken had left me, then pulled my trusty hash pipe from my other pocket and unraveled the leftover piece of black hash. “One or two more hits before heading home.” As I lit the hash I thought about how funny it was that I was talking to no one, yet it felt like it needed to be said. I held the smoke from this sweet relief in my lungs and smiled at my ritualistic behavior. As I exhaled I let out a chuckle, remembering the dead rat and Ernie beating the shit out of it with that broom. Can’t wait to tell Ken all about it tomorrow. “But for now, one last hit before going inside.”
Feeling like my legs were on their own path and my brain in a downward dog trance I glanced up and saw the lights still on. Fuck, I thought, the old boy is still awake. Man I was hoping to go to my room, put on my headphones and dig on “Aqualung” the new Jethro Tull album I just bought. I took an extra two minutes to get my head together, a few squirts of Visine to “get the red out”, and repeated my little mantra chant that helped me appear not stoned. “Om Mani Pardre not too high, Om not too high” My good mood would not last long.

A French Fry By Any Other Name

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Word to Your Spud
Potatoes. The Goth’s of the veggie world. Cut out it’s eyes, rip off its skin, or bake it alive an it‘s happy as a chowder clam. It’s still satisfies despite the poor treatment. And this coming weekend Potatoes are front and center for St. Pat. Spuds will get their proper respects by being part of an internationally celebrated St. Patrick’s Day tradition, the corned beef and cabbage dinner. Wait!! Now that I think about it not very respectful to this tuber. Not even a mention in the dishes name. Why the hell isn’t it a potato, corned beef, cabbage and carrot dinner? The potato has been one of the most loyal and versatile foods in history. Why these starchy delicious starches have been around longer than the Inca’s even inhabited its birth land. Estimated to have made the scene sometime between 8000 an 5000 BCE this now undisputed king of starchy sides was ripped from the Inca kitchens and transported all the way back to Spain, where they ungratefully prefer rice!! Undaughnted by the apparent haters the tater spread through Europe and became an important crop all over the world. Such a regal line the potato had few challengers to its throne due to being genetically challenged in diversity and was not imitated with the usual number of varietal clones. That led to the (Not So) Great Potato Famine that nearly decimated Ireland and leaving those corned beef pots spudless.
Undeterred by a lack of genetic engineering it didn’t take long before we humans added hundreds of new varieties, and even a new color or two. The potato stands alone as a global masterpiece of nature. Every continent, every culture, and every kitchen on earth bows to it’s infinite array of uses. A thickening agent, a must have in chowders, an arsenal of side uses that rival the chickens reign of culinary versatility, a research plant, skin burn protector, adhesives and quite possibly a source of biodegradable plastic in the near future. It’s even used to distill for alcohol in the making of delicious hearty and buzz worthy vodka, Scandinavia’s unusual caraway flavored Aquavit, and Poland’s Potcheen, an alcoholic beverage so freaking potent it was banned in Ireland for over a century. Yes the potato, such a superhero of the culinary set it should be marketed wearing a cape and a giant “P” on its chest! ….maybe not , but you dig what I‘m saying!!
So this St. Paddy’s day go ahead and cook or enjoy your traditional Irish one pot meal, but when you do take a minute or two out to salute that iamond in the ruff Gothic starch that has an entire year dedicated to it. That’s right, I said an entire year. In 2008, The United Nations convened in an attempt to give the potato is due by proclaiming it The International Year Of The Potato. But even then it got dissed as they forced it to share it’s 366 days of that leap year. 2008 was also the International Year Of Sanitation. Cleanliness is next to godliness, an the potato stood side by side with sanitation so by my calculations, potatoes ARE godliness. So enjoy, and if you are feeling the activist maybe even start a petition to officially rename the classic Irish meal Corned Beef and Potato!!…………………Peace

Memoirs of a Hippie Chef..(Leave the shit spreading to the landscapers and get you ass back in the kitchen!)

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Put Down That Rake And Get Back In The Kitchen

The clanging of pots and pans as they jockeyed for position on the stove, plates being pulled and stacked from the dishwasher. The air was full with the smells of a variety of vegetables and wafts of a large pot of chicken infused liquid hoping to one day soon become a soup. And the sounds were the familiar frantic sounds that I remembered before service began at the old restaurant. It was crunch time in the kitchen of this nursing home and I was so taken by the memories of being a cook. I just blurted out to the Nurse trying to run the kitchen “Can I help? I know a bit about food.” Without even a smile a very attractive Jamaican woman in a nurses uniform yelled “I need zeese onions peeled and cut, tink you could a’handle dat?” Nary a word needed to be spoken as I rushed over to the table with the onions, grabbed a familiar feeling knife and pulled out a cutting board. In a matter of minutes I had peeled, cored, and diced the onions. “What else do you need?” The Nurse stopped in mid stride and asked “You gotta all dem onions done?” I could tell she was doubting it so I held them up and said “Yup, where do you want them?” She smiled at me with a huge open mouth and I noticed a small gap in her front teeth. Suddenly something seemed almost sexy about her. She was in her late twenties or early thirties but very pretty. Her skin was smooth and silky and had a dark glow to it. Her dark brown eyes looked at me approvingly and she asked if I could put it in the pot on the stove. When I asked her if it was for the mirepoix I thought she was gonna run over and kiss me full on the lips. Again she flashed me that huge smile. “You do know your way around de Kitchen. My name is Maggie and yes, I need carrots and celery too. Can you hanel dat?” “That’s childs play Maggie, I’ll have it ready in no time. My name is JT.” “Zhay Tee? What kina name is dot? Ita sown like jus letter to me.” “My real name is Justin, but my friends call me JT. It seems we are friends now.” “Yes indeed it do Mr. zhay T.” I assisted Maggie in the kitchen and together we got lunch together quickly and efficiently while the rain continued to pound on the back door just begging to come in to visit the drain. Fred had left half an hour ago and said he would be back to pick me up at four. Damn it felt good to be back in a kitchen again. We ate lunch like they always do only this time apparently, Maggie joined the table instead of eating in the dining room as she normally did.
After lunch I helped clean up and then went outside as the rain had ended as abruptly as it had started. As I was surveying the yard and deciding what I should do Maggie called me from the front door of the mansion. When I got there she had another big smile and said to me “I got some good news for you Zhay. I jus talk ‘a Misser Viero an him say you cana work here wit us inside inna de kitchen and aroun’ de home alla da times.” There it was. Right there fate dangled its fickle tickle of a decision in front of me with ominous repercussions. If I say yes Fred will be mad, but if I say no I will be saying no to old man Viero. On the other hand if I say yes I have a full time job all year round and I am back in a kitchen. It really had felt awesome being in a kitchen and I could definitely see myself working with Maggie. Not to mention all the young ladies I would be working with. Okay, go ahead and mention it. I know, I know I have a girlfriend and all, but like my Mom says, “You can look at the menu as long as you remember you already ordered your entrée.” Give her credit for trying to speak restaurantese. Decision made and fate be fucked! “I would really like that Maggie.” She seemed very excited and told me I would finish out the week out in the yard with Fred and start in the nursing home next Monday. If it works out we will set up a schedule for when I was back in school. All in all, it seemed like it was nothing but gold. I didn’t remind myself that things were not always what they seemed. But that’s okay, I would find out in good time what new tricks fate had in store for me to tickle its devious funny bone.
When I got home that afternoon I called Carrie to tell her the news. She didn’t seem very excited, and I wasn’t sure if it was all the chicks I would be with or the fact that I was back in a kitchen. A few ludes and some weed after dinner would change all that bullshit. Tonight we would get fucked up, have sex, and the balance of the universe will be restored.
The week passed much quicker than I had anticipated and before I knew it I was at my new job, back in a familiar setting. I was a cook, dishwasher, server, and when not busy with food I vacuumed the carpets throughout the nursing home. I kinda dug doing that because I got to hang with the nurses aides and joke around with the patients. Even the nurses had begun to like hanging around me. Jesus shit I felt like I was fucking king shit here. The head nurse was in her forties but still something about her seemed hot and intriguing. And Maggie, well that was another story itself. It became clear very quickly that she was the one in control. Everyone feared her. Not so much feared her as it was a fear of pissing her off. She was Mr. Vireos favorite person and messing with her was like messing with the old man himself. She took a very special interest in me and it didn’t bother me in the least. As a matter of fact the closer I got to Maggie the better off I was. Maggie was the right one to have on your side and since we worked together much of the time we became fast friends. I got my kitchen responsibilities done faster and faster so I could have more time on the floor. It just never dawned on me that nurses could be such practical jokers.
One day as I was flirting with one of the aides Maggie snuck up from behind and said to me “Jhay, you afinish so faust today dot we got spayshal job for a you.” A shot of adrenalin started coursing through my central nervous system because the sound of that had an eerie similarity to “downtime.” In a sheepish voice I inquired if it was in fact downtime but Maggie assured me it was just that they needed help with an SSE. I started to feel a little relief, an SSE did not sound like it was all that horrible. But an uneasy feeling came over me when I saw the dastardly dog smiles on the nurses. “Meet us up inna Miss Lemcows room upstair. We meet you dare Jhay.”
As I walked in I began to get concerned. After all, this place was loaded with some of the most extremely senile people to ever observe the Civil War. Maybe not that old, but old enough. I was directed into the bathroom where they had poor Mrs. Lemkaugh sitting naked on the toilet. It was an embarrassing sight for me but the patient was not in control of her faculties. Not in control of other things either as I would soon find out. I tries to look away but its like a car accident, the harder I tried the more I looked. I was depresses at how depressed the old woman’s body was. Any muscles or tendons in her breasts had long ago lost any of its substance and hung like deflated balloons. Her whole body just seemed so frail and I felt very uncomfortable, a if I were violating her privacy. I guess I was but she was completely unaware of my prescience. I has to look away so I chose to focus on the alluring Jamaican woman I wa beginning to develop a crush on. In Maggie’s hand was a metal can much like a flour sifter with a red rubber hose attached to it. “Here Jhay, I need a you hole dis can up over da heyd ofa Miss Lemcow. Totally confused and wondering what the fuck was happening I must have given off the aura of wonder. The sexy forty something nurse leaned up to my ear and whispered “This your first Soap Suds Enema JT?” It took a minute for the words to sink in. I had heard all three words before, but not in the same sentence. I was holding a can of soapy water, so there’s the soap suds, but enema? I looked down at Maggie grabbing the other end of the rubber hose and in an instant it hit me. Oh my fucking god in heaven she is sticking that hose in….in..oh my fucking god in heaven she stuck the end of the hose in Mrs. Lemkaugh ass!! “Okay Flo let off de valve.” Flo, the not so sexy anymore forty something nurse, shot me a smile usually reserved for Karmic retribution. She reached up and released the valve. In an instant the can emptied its contents of soapy water and went directly to Lemkaughs ass, which in turn let go of everything it owned and was holding on so dearly to. It made the stink carousel of decayed horseshit from my old landscaping days seem like jasmine incense. I gagged as I tried desperately not to breath. At least not through my nose although inhaling that stench in my mouth did not seem an acceptable alternative. I could tell Maggie was enjoying my pain and Flo let out a chuckle. They had gotten me good on this one. “Am I done here?” After I managed to utter my request, I held my breath and very quietly offered a “Jesus shit” mantra “Of course Jayh, you canna go backs de kitchen.” With that I put down my soap suds enema can and left the room. I feared it wouldn’t be my last SSE, and my job around the nursing home was evolving a