c. Melon Images
On those nights when it is too bloody hot to cook, when the commute has smelled intimately of strange armpits, when the road tar is melting and the subways belch, on those nights do we go out to eat, or do we order in?
Whichever we do, we forget that there is still a kitchen; still pans spitting oil, steam rising from bubbling pots, and an oven howling heat like the mouth of hell. There has to be someone in those kitchens, frying the chicken, simmering the quinoa, shovelling the pizzas, scrubbing the grease, hacking the lotus roots. At the end of the night, after you’ve eaten, you might see them in white, by the backdoor alleyway, totally shattered. On those nights be sure you tipped well.
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