Scars

I have burn marks all up and down my arms from shoving things into hot ovens and handling hot pots. I have knife nicks on each thumb and a few fingers. My hands are calloused and beat up. I call them my kitchen hands and they tell a story. I use to be proud of them. I used them as proof that I have what it takes, that I can withstand the pain of every day in a kitchen. I held them with pride. But more and more lately I've become a little ashamed. Each burn was a moment I became careless, each nick a time when my mind wandered. Instead of precision in all things, I wavered and hurt myself. A perfect cook would have no scars. A perfect cook would move their body exactly as they planned. Their knives would be an extension of their body. But there is no such thing as a perfect cook, just as there is no such thing as a perfect person, and we all have the scars to prove it.