I’ve had a bunch a different jobs in my life: waitress, antique store clerk, book seller, taco maker, smoothie girl, dishwasher, retail clerk, and cancer registrar. (The last one will be explained in a future entry.) Five of these jobs had to do with food. The other two had something to do with food peripherally.

My first big deal job was the last one, which had nothing to with food. I really liked it, and it provided great pay, security, health insurance, and paid vacations. I was so proud of myself. But it didn’t work out. A square peg trying to fit herself into a round hole?

I will never be suited to a job chained at a desk. I want to observe, I want to explore and I want to question. I want to be in the world interacting with people from all walks of life.

When I started my current job, there was the front end and the back end. The front end consists of making drinks and taking orders. The back end is cooking. Two months ago, I started learning the back end. The place where I work does breakfast, sandwiches and salads. I finally crawled out from underneath that heavy emotional rock I’d been under and I initiated interest in it.

Making food for people for money? Noooo… I’m used to futzing around in my kitchen any way I please, but when you have orders flying in left and right, your brain shifts gears and focuses in a whole new way. It’s called being in the zone.

Sometimes you aren’t. Something lands on the floor. Something is in a different spot than you thought it was, and you go scurrying after it. Something else burns. And eggs…

Eggs!!! They are a class unto themselves. The temperamental delicacy of a poached egg. Or an over-easy egg. Sometimes I pray over the pot. C’mon baby, hang in there! Keep it together!!!

And when it doesn’t? You sometimes hedge your bets and hide a bit of runny yolk underneath another egg white and pretend it broke on the way out there. I mean, it breaks when they fork into it, right?!?!?!? Or you don’t hedge and do it over again. But that’s only when you have the time to do it.

A poached egg is a beautiful thing. When it’s spooned out of the water compact and glossy, I want to crow and jump around. But I can’t do that. That would break the yolk.

Another thing I’ve learned how to make on the job is scrambled eggs. I should know how to do that, right? Nope. Dad made his own version, called cheesy eggs, when I was little. Eggs are usually made FOR me, not BY me. Unless it’s an omelette. I like making those.

And so, I made my own scrambled cheesy eggs at home. But not before the waffles. Work has renewed my interest in those too. I got the recipe from The Joy of Cooking. Cornmeal waffles. Extra crunch!  Or so I thought.

I was excited. I wanted to try out the waffle iron I got for Christmas. It was $10. And this is where it gets funny.

First, don’t do what I did and overfill the waffle iron on the first try.

Second, don’t use a ten-dollar waffle iron. The waffle is not cooked consistently. It burns in the middle. Every time. No matter what you do or what you adjust.

But for the purposes of a food blog, those burns can be hidden. Ha! And the waffles tasted pretty good, except for the middle. My poor ugly waffles.

On to the next part. I wanted to gnaw cheese in frustration. Or maybe in crazy desire. It’s Manchego cheese: divinely nutty, buttery, smooth Spanish sheep’s-milk cheese. Munah-munah. Worth every pretty penny.

While the waffles waited, I grated. The cheese.

And aerated. The eggs and milk. I mixed them together and splashed it all into a buttered skillet. Scrape, scrape. Scramble, scramble.

I assembled the pretty plate. I added vanilla yogurt, lemon curd, and blueberries to the bereft waffles. Muy yummo.