Where The Birds Sing Words.

I was grilling frenched lamb racks while he took a moment to watch me.
The heat of the grill was burning and coloring my face dark pink.
I could feel my hands sweat under my plastic gloves as they tighten around my fingers.
The sizzling of the meat as it seared against the hot black bars was like a symphony to my ears.
The smell of the lamb rub caressed my nose like a blanket of amazingness.

Chef Bubba, (the same man who was watching me) who is the executive chef at Cinderella's asked me something yesterday.

Do I regret this profession?

Regret?

Do I regret the heat of the grill?

The sweat under my gloves?

Or the now 10+ burns that I have gained within nine days of work?

Or the hours upon hours on my feet without a break?

Do I regret making beautiful looking lamb chop plates that people were about to pay sixty dollars for?

Or meeting the great and friendly people, who I am blessed to call my co-workers?

Or the numerous compliments I received today on my appetizer plates?

Or the feeling of pride and humbleness I felt when receiving those compliments?

Regret?

"No chef, not at all. I've dreamed about doing this since I was nine years old."

"Huh, well alright then, can't argue with that!"