My Sometimes Personal Hell

Steam billows out of pots. Something that looks like a cauldron sits in a corner, squat and fat; issuing forth thin streams of steam, only this one is gleaming silver instead of crusted black with age. Peering inside one can see bones of some as yet unidentified amount of chicken, along with bits of vegetables. The air itself shimmers as heat rolls off of the long flat-top. Almost every burner is occupied with pots or pans. Some reducing sauces, some holding mixtures of fluid and solid, waiting to be turned into soup. The floor is mottled concrete, white and yellow embedded in it's surface; which is all littered with a few peels here and there, a stray mushroom or a puddle of water. People walk back and forth, not exactly hurrying, but not slacking either. Calls echo through the room, warning of hot pots or the passage of a person. Delicious scents poor out of the various pots and out of the ovens. The hum of the coolers, the din of the hoods, and the swish, slam and rumble, slosh of the dishwasher are the accompaniment to this cacophony of sounds. Not to mention the splash of a person trying to prevent another flood, much like a sailor bails a leaky boat, it is a constant chore to keep the kitchen afloat, and water free. Hot fat sizzles in a pan, and hisses, flames leaping as food is added. The oven door opens and closes in an irregular pattern, usually with another bang. The clack of a wooden spoon as it hits the floor is followed by a low curse of frustration. Greetings are called out as residents pass by, gossip and news being exchanged. The swinging door bangs against the frame it sits in. A quiet hiss and click is heard as vegetables are cut, followed by the slightly sinister sound of metal on metal as a knife is sharpened. There is a sharp clatter as an empty pan is dropped. The food piles up in the back room as it is delivered throughout the day. Music plays in the background. And at the end of the night all is silence and darkness.