Rice Cooker Revenge – Chapter 6

RYU

I’m so beat, my hands and fingers shake. After washing dishes and seasoning rice all day, not to mention mopping the floors, cleaning out the refrigerator and reordering the pantry into The Chef’s idea of “organized” (a system that made absolutely no sense to me so it won’t come as a surprise that he yelled at me the entire time I was in there moving goods around for him), I have little to no energy left. Nothing left in me to practice chopping or perfecting the tempura batter recipe I got from the rice cooker.

I sit on a stool, my fingers clutching a trembling pen as I scribble notes on the back of an invoice.

“When it comes to the pickles, the chef is sloppy, which is why most of them come back to the kitchen uneaten. And you know Japanese people…”

“We love pickles. I know.” I make notes of this, “Pickles are key,” yawning and checking the time. Two in the morning again. I haven’t practiced cutting vegetables in days. Instead we’ve spent every night going over everything the chef makes and sells.

“If he would only pick cucumbers the same size and use the same amount of salt each time, they would come out perfect. Once he tried to brine with miso too and he hated them but the customers loved them. They didn’t last more than a week in the kitchen even though the customers still ask for them to this day.”

“Miso pickles. Got it.” I shove the paper into my back pocket and stretch. “Well, I need to sort the trash and head home. I’m beat.”

I hop in place a few times to wake myself up and get the blood flowing to my legs again. The rice cooker hums as I straighten up the kitchen. I wring out all the sponges and stack them up neatly next to the sink. Tossing the rags in the bucket for washing, I tidy up the knives, checking each one to make sure it’s spotless before putting it away.

“You shouldn’t put so much effort into making sure the kitchen is clean every night. It’s not like it’ll keep The Chef from firing you.”

I sigh, my shoulders falling in a lump. “I know, but this is literally the only job in town, and I have to keep it.”

I stew for a moment, wishing I had paid more attention in school, wishing I had more ambition, more drive to be better like my older brother. He went to college and earned a degree, while I did odd jobs and skimmed off my parents until they kicked me out and moved to the countryside.

“But what about all the tips I’m giving you? You could open your own restaurant! Serve tempura, rice, and pickles and be set for the future. Because your tempura would be the best tempura in the neighborhood. Better than The Chef’s.”

I turn around, my eyebrows way up in my hair, before I double over laughing. “You must be joking.” I slap my leg, and my hand catches on the rip in the knee. Oh no, this is my best pair of jeans! One of the only pair that fit me well enough. The Chef always wears navy blue trousers, a white shirt, and clogs to work everyday. He has five different dark grey double-breasted jackets he keeps exceptionally clean because his appearance is ridiculously important to him. This is also why I never leave the back kitchen. Since The Chef pays so little, I can’t even afford real chef’s attire like him.

I slow my laughing and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “Really, rice cooker. I appreciate all the help, but I am the very last person on Earth that could compete with The Chef. I live paycheck to paycheck. I wear hand-me-downs from my older brother, and I almost never go out with friends because I have no money to. How could someone like me even compete with someone like him?”

I pause to inspect the rice cooker, which only a few months ago was just a mold of plastic and metal, boiling rice and beeping on occasion. Now it’s pretty much the only thing I talk to. The darn thing understands me better than my own brother. How is that even possible?

I consider for a moment that maybe I do need therapy.

With one hand in the air and the other grabbing the trash bag, I wave goodnight and click the lights off.