Foods lab cook date 12-17-09. Our last mission was a near failure. We lost a lot of good cooks at that kitchen, d***-it! It all started when the sirens rang signaling that battle had commenced. It was a cooled, stormy day, last block 12:51. We had no idea what we were getting ourselves into. “Get to work men, let’s go, let’s go!” screamed Chief John. We all reported to our individual stations. I manned the shifter splitting the flower and sugar piece by piece, shredding it to dust, while Sous Chef Ricky gathered the ingredients and fed me the Intel from the battle strategy (A.K.A instructions). I looked to my right to see Privet Dale working the heavy machinery, boiling stoves and activating stand mixers. On my left, Chief John held a long, razor-sharp blade in his hand. He raised the blade into the air and fearlessly and rapidly hacked at the vegetables, tearing the remains with the knife. I then moved to the creature’s eggs, carefully detached them from their shells, and tossed the little devils into the mixer. The unborn creature’s offspring combined with the other mixtures and blended to a white cream. Then the mixing commenced; I turned my attention to Dale and so did Sous Chef Ricky. Dale and John were having difficulties cooking the omelet on account of an equipment malfunction with the stove. Dale fought to save the destroyed, uncooked omelet as I tossed the cake mixture into the oven and set a countdown for the big boom. Dale made a daring move and delivered uncooked omelet to the enemy’s stove. When the pan saucer was set in the proper installation, flames rose, heating the omelet. Privet Dale then set his own personal clock for the final countdown. During our wait, the team rushed to pick up the kitchen and leave us in a clean base to work. The fortress (A.K.A table) was set nicely as the first clock stopped, letting us begin the consumption of the cake. The meal was good and very relaxing, but when I slowed to take a glance down at my watch, horror struck my face. The watch stated “2:13”; the ships would be leaving in two minutes and the omelet’s timer just set. I looked around the fortress at my fellow comrades. We knew what had to happen. We knew we had failed. In those last fleeting minutes, we did not go gentle into that good night. We fought out our hearts and triumphantly delivered the final on-tray to the proper target for inspection. The omelet tasted like burnt kidney and should have been quarantined immediately. Just then, the sirens rang. The ships were fueled and ready to leave port, but the base was still in chaos. Surly there was no way to make it out of this one any other way. I then spoke for the first time to my team: “I’ll stay.” They looked at me dumbfounded. “Are you sure?” said Chief John. I nodded my head. “Wow! Now that’s what I call taking one for the team,” said Privet Dale, relaxing more now. “Thank you,” Sous Chef Ricky said as my friends left the confines of the kitchen to meet with the yellow extraction ships. That is how I was left behind. A sacrifice that was well worth it. A bullet for that team, I suppose. That was how it happened, my final mission. I saw it through to the end. A clear suicide mission, huh?
The Last Cook
December 18, 2009