cook,” she says.
“Yes, I guess I am. Hi, I’m Denise.”
“Glad you’re here. I’m Helen.” Helen reaches out to shake my hand, but up high, with fingernails fluttering so I can take a better look I guess. We don’t really shake hands, as one would normally do. Instead, I am forced to take her hand softly, up high, like you would with a queen. I do not comment on her nails, because I personally think they’re horrid!
Helen starts taking charge of my day. “Billy and Ray are still sleeping, but she’ll be up after a bit and get you going later at the grill, probably for the lunch shift when Bubba has to get the barbeque going. Come on back here and I’ll show you our time sheets for the week. We have a lot of things to do today. It’s always crazy when we have a barbeque.”
I fill out my personal information and my time sheet for 7:00AM.
“Now I’ll take you over and introduce you to Bubba and Karen.”
I feel a knot clench up in my stomach at the thought of being face to face with Bubba.
Helen walks ahead of me. I now notice her red tennis shoes. She walks and dresses as if she does not realize that she is in her fifties. We walk past Karen who is taking an order from a family of five, probably RV guests, and Helen leads me behind the meat counter to the grill area. We pass the dishwashing area where many used plates, bowls, and cooking utensils are piled. Many of the plates have partially eaten pancakes on them. We then walk by a chopping table with a huge bowl filled with the makings of potato salad. Celery, onion, and black olives wait to be chopped next to the bowl. A vat of boiled potatoes are cooling and the skins are peeling and cracking. Bubba looks very serious as he turns the many piles of hash browns with one hand, and with the other hand he is rotating two fried eggs in a Teflon pan. A pile of bacon is being kept warm on the edge of the huge flat grill where the hash browns are cooking. The left over space on the flat grill is filled with three giant pancakes. There is a grated grill to the left of the flat grill that has two steaks sizzling with the smoke floating above in a thick layer. The microwave behind Bubba goes off with a high pitched buzz and Karen rushes past us on her way to some sort of cold storage unit located in-between the microwave and deep fryer.
“Bubba. This is Denise.” Helen stands there with her arms crossed keeping her distance from the grill area.
Bubba keeps up with the constant motion of cooking, but turns to acknowledge me. His eyes are bloodshot. He smiles, almost flirtatiously, and says, “LET ME FIX YA UP WITH SOME BREAKFAST. YUR GONNA NEED THE ENERGY TO MAKE IT THROUGH THIS DAY. SINCE I’M THE COOK, YUR GONNA HAVE TO TASTE WHAT BREAKFAST SHOULD TASTE LIKE.”
Bubba seems to be making it clear to me that he is the cook. Fine with me. He isn’t a bad looking man with his rosy cheeks and manly stature, but you can feel his intensity and see his puffed up chest and intimidating gestures. His stomach and overall appearance is slightly bloated. He’s a real ‘man’s man’ in a backwoods sort of way.
“KAREN, ORDER UP!” Bubba yells, and then to me he loudly says, “GO SIT YURSELF DOWN AND I’LL BRING YA SOME BREAKFAST.” It sounded like an order from a drill sergeant. I could use a large dose of comfort food anyway, so I go and find myself a seat. Helen prances off back to the register.
I chose an empty redwood picnic table to sit at and take in the surroundings. The décor is ranch style. Large photos of cattle and steer hang on the wall of each booth. An old horse drawn carriage hangs precariously from the high log ceiling.
“Hi. I’m Karen. Bubba says he’s gonna make you some breakfast. You want some coffee?” Karen is also in her early fifties, thin with short-cropped hair. She seems nervous or high strung in some way. She’s not too interested in me at the moment. I’m sure she has tons of things to do.
“Sure, coffee would be great! Thanks.” I guess I don’t get to decide what I will be eating, and what’s the deal with all us fifty-year old women?
After a few minutes, my breakfast arrives on two giant platters. One platter is holding three pancakes the size of basketballs with two ice cream scoops of whipped butter. The second platter has three fried eggs, hash browns, four pieces of bacon, and two slices of sourdough toast. I look over towards the kitchen and see Bubba leaning on the meat counter watching me. He tips his baseball cap in my direction. I smile back in acknowledgment. Good gawd! If I ate all this, I’d blow up! I might as well eat what I can while I can. I’ll bet this is some sort of rite of passage. If it means I can only pass if I eat the entire meal, then I will surely fail! I hear Bubba belt out with one of his loud laughs from over by the grill area. He is alone in there, so the laugh must be directed at me and his own private food joke.
I whittle away at an edge of the pancakes, eat two eggs and part of the hash browns. I wrap the bacon in my napkin and put in it my purse for the dogs when I get a break.
“We’ve got a lot of work to do. As soon as you’re finished, bring your plates to the sink and I’ll show ya what we need ya to do for now.” Karen was standing next to me with her arms piled with dirty platters from the tables. Her tone sounds irritated with me for eating. Maybe I should have refused the free breakfast. Was that the test? If so, I was set up to fail either way.
The platters are as heavy as their size. I carry them over to the sink area and wait for Karen to finish ringing up a customer at the register. Bubba is at the grill on the other side of the wall, so I don’t have to look at him.
“All righty! Here’s an apron. Get goin’ on these dishes. Then we have to make the potato salad for the barbeque. We also have corn to shuck, salad to make, beans to heat, fruit to slice, and sour cream containers to fill. I’m goin’ out to have a smoke!” Karen spins around angrily and disappears around the corner of the wall, heading to the door to the outside next to the grill. I hear her say something to Bubba, and they both start laughing.
I turn to the sink and face my duty head on. The platters, bowls, silverware and pans are piled dangerously high. The dishwashing sink is filled with cold, dirty, sudless water and is also filled to capacity with dishes. Likewise, so is the rinse water. There is a large trashcan at the edge of the third and final sterilizing rinse sink packed with leftover food. I put on the gloves I find over on a rack, empty all three sinks, and then refill them with hot and sudsy, hot and clear, and hot with sanitizer. I scrape away all the wasted food into the trashcan. Karen who has finished her cigarette is clearing off more tables and bringing them to the pile. I do dishes for about two hours, changing the dirty water twice. I leave the pans for last. As I am about to dip a small Teflon fry pan into the sink, I am shaken to the core by Bubba’s roaring angry voice. “DON’T PUT THAT IN THERE! DAMN IT! DON’T EVER PUT MY PAN IN SUDSY WATER!”
Was he watching me? And for how long had he been watching? Was he just waiting for me to get to his pan? I notice a few of the customers were looking in my direction to see what was going on.
“What? I don’t understand.” I’m confused at his anger about this seemingly simple problem about a small pan.
“IF YUR A COOK THEN YA KNOW NOT TO CLEAN THESE PANS IN DISH WATER, EVER! HERE, LET ME SHOW YA SINCE YA DON’T KNOW. YA TAKE A PAPER TOWEL AND WIPE IT LIKE THIS.” Bubba begins violently wiping his pan with the paper towel. He takes it back over by the grill with me following him and hangs it above the grill.
“HERE! YA HANG IT HERE! NEVER WASH MY PANS!”
“Listen Bubba. You really don’t need to be angry with me. I didn’t know that was the deal with the pans. You could have told me that without yelling. Why was it over there in the pile? I’m really a reasonable person. You can tell me what I’m supposed to do and not do. I follow instructions very well.”
Bubba seems surprised that I am not mad right back. I think he expected me to blow, but I just don’t have confrontation in me. Never have. I’ve had to think about this a lot through the years and through the men that have had power over my life. I’ve pretty much come to the conclusion that some people thrive on debate and defense, that for them, this is a thrill, a blast, a passion. Personally, it shrinks me into a ball rolling away. I depart, leaving my debater to their