how you take me back.
The minute you start singing about how it is getting increasingly hard for you to breathe, I am transported back to the summer of 2003 and the shores of a lake in northern Iowa. I can recall all too well the sounds and smells of the fancy resort kitchen I slaved in all summer long. The steamy, overwhelming heat that was not at all relieved by the wide open back door. The stereo blasting an assortment of CDs as varied as the seasonal summer staff: from Abba to Phish to Bloodhound Gang, the music came pouring out at incredible decibels to be heard over the clanging of saucepans and the swoosh of the dishwashing station and the shouting of the chefs.
I can see the sugar melting and browning atop the Crème brûlée, as I wield my blow torch and rotate the ramekin at just the right angle to ensure an evenly caramelized crust. I see the rows and rows of dinner salads and organized trays of salad dressings awaiting the rush of waiters and waitresses, where an errant grab will knock them over like dominoes, the raspberry vinaigrette mixing in pink swirls with the homemade Ranch dressing (gallons of mayonnaise and buttermilk and ranch seasoning all mixed together in a giant bucket and doled out into tiny metal cups). The slick floors that contributed to my fall into the oven and the subsequent searing of my forearm and tearing of muscles already painfully taxed from the previous days attempts at water skiing. Spending long working days in the kitchen and late, chilly nights gathered around a bonfire with such an odd assortment of people: a lesson in tolerance and acceptance and assertiveness. Driving one moonless night to a remote part of one of the lesser lakes where the dark was so complete that the stars seemed to multiply exponentially, their light just enough to outline the silhouette next to me on the car hood.
So thank you for the memories, Maroon 5. It almost makes me forgive you for the atrocity that was your second album.
