Gone are the days when I used to have white-collar IT hands, soft like a baby’s butt, only capable of typing away on a computer. Now, I have “worker” hands — tough and callus-stricken — capable of chopping, beating, kneading and butchering.
When the headless chicken and I first locked eyes, I thought that there was no way I was going to survive the culinary program. It was only the second week in the kitchen. I knew when I signed up for the program what I was getting myself into. I figured I would be able to handle the dead meat. When the moment actually arrived, I was squeamish and disgusted. The blood dripped off the poor chicken’s dead body. I was so shook up for a second that I couldn’t tell where the legs were and where the wings were. Random thoughts raced through my mind like, “How would I feel if someone did this to me?” Weird, I know.