I admit it. I'm not a cook and I don't like being in the kitchen, unless I'm on my way to the refrigerator and back. There, I said it. I feel so much better.
Therefore, I find it ironic that my nutritional coursework requires that I work in a kitchen, accumulating hours, under the general guise of "food service." I work in two kitchens, and the chefs, along with all the workers in them, are wonderful. I love them and love being around them. They are artists, skilled and knowledgeable in the ways of food. What else would you call people who have somehow managed to make tofu smell good?
But besides the social need, which I partake of generously, working in a kitchen is sheer torture. I don't want to know how to hold a knife so I won't cut myself because I usually don't hold a knife. If the food wrapper can't be torn open with my bare hands, I move on.
So when a professor winks at me and says, you never know, you may end up working in a kitchen one day," I have to smile and nod. I know myself. If I end up working in a kitchen, it's because G-d hasn't had enough to laugh about and needs some comic relief. For Him, and Him only, I'd be more than happy to oblige.