Word: kitchened
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...sixth-floor apartment (sans elevator) with five other young women in one of the bruising concrete blocks that industrial Chinese cities ought to trademark. They enter into a room with a table, to which they pull over plastic stools when they want to eat. Their “kitchen,” if it could be called that, has a sink and a burner or two. The six of them sleep on bunks spread between two rooms. They don’t have much in the way of closets or drawers for storage, but that’s okay, since...
Five days out of seven I wake up, roll out of bed in what my mother has labeled the scullery maid’s quarters and then plod down the skinny back stairs to the industrial kitchen where classic rock has become king—and not just any classic rock, but “WPBH: Puuuuuhhhkipsie.” (Poughkeepsie, N.Y., for the uninitiated.) I spend the day cooking, chopping untold amounts of everything and anything, washing dishes, wiping tables and setting up the “front” or serving...
...here, and Limp Bizkit the mornings when our manager Chip is awakened at 5:30 a.m. by a call from John, the breakfast cook, saying that he can’t make it. It’s the music that keeps everyone going in the morning, and the kitchen is never silent...
...acquire one of our nicknames, or at least an act of exquisite stupidity.) We must be the more misunderstood of the two groups, the students never suspecting that we are intelligent human beings who might know a thing or two about music. All they hear coming out of the kitchen is “Come Sail Away,” which never fails to be on at dinner time...
...even with all our differences, music still affects us in the same way. We need it to survive. In the kitchen, it keeps us sane, a rhythm in the dishroom. The students need it to fulfill their creative desires; Mahler is an essential part of their diet. Tanglewood has been infiltrated by classic rock lovers, but it’s all in the name of loving music...