Whenever I make fried egg sandwiches for breakfast, my thoughts always go back to Mama Seabell and the time she spent on Chimes Street. Kitchen schedules blur lines, night shift/day shift, weekday/weekend so a whole lot of glorious nights turn into shaky mornings when you had to go in and start all over again. I’d hit Mama’s early and ask for fried chicken or a fried egg sandwich if she didn’t have any chicken ready yet. She’d look at me hard, not quite disgusted, but certainly exasperated at my current state. All she’d ask though was Mayo or ketchup? I didn’t even know people did egg sandwiches with mayo. I never really got to know her, or her me, but we shared the bond all kitchen workers share, whether you’re in charge or just washing dishes and taking out garbage. I can still see a trio of six gallon aluminum pots on the stove, a one pound stick of butter in each melting under a low flame. A stainless steel table loaded down with bags of chopped onion, bellpepper, and celery. Jars of Tony’s and black pepper, dried thyme and basil, sharpened knives, cutting boards, the ever present 16oz styro of coffee. Sometimes it’s just a box of medium mushrooms and a hotel pan of mushroom stuffing, some sour cream and a stack of sheet pans. Sometimes a whole pork loin on a cutting board, waiting to be trimmed and cut into pairs of 4oz boneless chops. Sides of salmon to be de-boned and portioned and always, every day, the smell of red beans cooking down and bacon on the flat top. Mama knew what I was, even if she didn’t know exactly who I was. And watching her stir her pots and plate her dishes helped ease me back into the here and now, from wherever I’d wandered off the night before. Gird my loins and all that. Down some chicken or an egg sandwich and get back to it, knife in hand.
