Culinary Combat

Photo Credit: c1.staticflickr.com

I stood there, staring at the crunchy, cheesy concoctions I marvelously put together. Little pops and crackles rose up from the sizzling silver surface beneath me. On my left were some of the products of my culinary precision, waiting under the bright lamp to be eaten by the many students I'd see that day. I was ready.
 

I looked through the smoky, scratched screen in front of me as the cafeteria sat empty. It was the calm before the storm. It was in those brief moments of tension that I knew they were coming. I realized that my collection of culinary art would soon be devoured, and that it wasn't enough to dent the oncoming invasion of ravenous, rampaging humans. 

The lives of my crunchy compadres flashed before my eyes as I saw their gooey interior splatter across across the paper layered pan. It's my job to make them meal ready. And they were, fearlessly sitting under the heat lamp waiting for the tongs to embrace them.

Suddenly, I realized that I had become lost in thought, and the people in front of me had lost their patience. My attention was suddenly drawn to the empty pans. Nothing was left but cheesy, crunchy remnants of my previous masterpieces. A slight nervousness tingled through my skin as I looked ahead. Everyone was blankly staring at me. Some of their eyes drooped down to the quesadillas on the grill, and then slowly back up to meet me.

They were hungry. Nothing would get between them and their feast, not even time itself. Suddenly I started pacing back and forth, unwrapping tortillas from their self contained barriers of cryostasis. They stuck together, refusing to leave their brethren. Some of them left segments of their fractured shells behind, which meant that I had to condemn them to the dark pit of refuse.

Time passed as I continued to make sure the food was cooking. My hands wrapped around the nice, wooden handles of my ninja flippers and within seconds all of the quesadillas were grilled side up. I was half way there. Sweat dripped from my brow as the pressure intensified. My mind started calculating...chicken...pepperoni...pepperoni...chicken...cheese...pepperoni...I thought to myself as my hands pointed at them all.

The crowd shot me a blank stare as I mumbled to myself like a madman. I tried to make casual conversation with some of my guests, but all they could hear was the screaming howl of hunger from within their desperate souls. Finally, the time came.

It was the maiden voyage for the little self contained vessels I created. A sigh escaped my chest as I wiped my brow and brought them to the bilateral incision board. With one fell swoop I halved all of my creations, and tossed them into the breach. I knew none of them would last long, and I mentally said good bye to all of my work.

Suddenly, I noticed something odd. One of the students, who ordered pepperoni quesadillas, walked off with cheese as well, leaving two ladies stranded in front of my grill, staring at me with sad, pitiful eyes. "Where is the cheese?" They asked sweetly, looking at the empty tins. Then, without any break in concentration, I started over, repeating this endless cycle of satisfying their voracious appetites.

Through the heated battle of culinary combat I successfully satisfied all customers with their own custom crafted quesadilla. After closing time, I cleaned away the remains of a well fought war. I had managed to win this battle, but I knew they would be back. College students were never permanently satisfied. One week from now, they would return, hungry for another greasy feast. Until then, I had to rest, refocus, and remember that each battle got me closer to achieving the ultimate goal in this season of my life. One day, I would be a master chef.