– memories of a man getting older –

Kitchen Work

August 4th, 2010 · 1 Comment

I was getting older and distancing myself from Boots, the Boza’s son. I became buddies with the two dish washers who worked in the main kitchen. Not that we hung out together after meals were served as I too was subject to the same sort of age difference that kept Boots and I apart. They were a handful of years older and although they enjoyed my help and company in the kitchen it did not extend beyond that time. Nevertheless, I could be found in the kitchen at every meal, helping with the dishes.

We worked with a commercial dishwasher. You load a tray with dishes, spray them down, push it into a receiving area, lower the stainless steel enclosure, hit the power buttons, and hot water would blast the dishes. When the cycle was over you lifted the enclosure, clouds of hot steam rising out, and push out the tray with the clean dishes with a new tray of dirty dishes. The three of us became a well-oiled machine, singing as we worked. With my help the guys were getting their work done in a significantly quicker fashion. It felt great being part of the team.

Mr. Boza was aware of our team and offered up that I should stay at the hotel another two or three weeks after my parents vacation ended. My parents would return on the weekends and I would return home with them at a later date! I couldn’t be happier.

We played a game with the potato peeler. You dumped the potatoes into the tub that was lined with a sandpaper like surface. Put on the lid and hit the timer. The potatoes danced around, rubbing their skins off on the coarse surface. The game was to throw the largest potato one could find and time how long it would take for it to disappear.

A routine of the team was our meal break. Each of us would grab a big plate of food (I remember the fried chicken and home made french fries) and a quart of milk each and go sit on the back porch of the kitchen at a little table. The porch was shady and overlooked the lake, a beautiful spot. This was the same spot I sat and saw a vision of Carol through my tear-filled eyes. She had left me for Ronnie the bar tender due to an indiscretion on my part. I sat in pain and saw this vision of Carol descend down into the lake and disappear.

The kitchen times were wonderful. The chef with his scarf and white hat; the waitresses moving quickly between kitchen and dining room in their starched white uniforms; the smells and sounds. Even in work their was a shared joy at the Yulan Hotel. A joy not unknown to people who stayed at other places on the devine little mountain lake.

Tags: Washington Lake

1 response so far ↓

  • 1 Antie // Dec 20, 2015 at 1:27 pm

    Intsghis like this liven things up around here.

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