The Shift That Never Ends

There's a moment almost every cook knows. It isn't when you burn a sauce, or when the chef shouts at you in front of everyone.

It's the morning when you wake up, look at the ceiling and realise: everything I went through yesterday, I'm going through again today. Same pace, same pressure, same race.

And then you get up. Because you have to.

People outside the kitchen think cooking is a glamorous job. They see plates on Instagram, TV shows, white jackets. They don't see hands covered in burns, night shifts that leave your eyes blurry, or the moments you stand in the walk-in only because you need thirty seconds of quiet and cold air so you don't snap.

This is about what a cook's exhaustion looks like, the way I know it from the kitchen.

Smena koja nikad ne prestaje

Postoji jedan trenutak koji zna skoro svaki kuvar. Nije to kad ti zagori sos, ni kad ti šef vikne pred celom ekipom.

To je jutro kad se probudiš, gledaš u plafon i shvatiš: sve što sam prošao juče, prolazim i danas. Isti tempo, isti pritisak, ista trka.

I onda ustaneš. Jer moraš.

Ljudi van kuhinje misle da je kuvanje glamurozan posao. Vide tanjire na Instagramu, emisije, bele bluze. Ne vide ruke pune opekotina, noćne smene posle kojih ti se muti pred očima, ni trenutke kad stojiš u hladnjači samo zato što ti treba trideset sekundi tišine i hladnog vazduha da ne pukneš.

Ovo je tekst o tome kako izgleda iscrpljenost kuvara, onako kako je ja znam iz kuhinje.

Your Body Remembers Every Shift

When you walk into a professional kitchen, your body starts working like a machine.

You stand for eight, ten, twelve hours and move around two square metres. The movements are fast and repeated hundreds of times. You lift containers, carry pots, bend over a stove throwing off fifty, sixty degrees of heat.

And your body records all of it.

First the feet: a dull ache you stop noticing because you're used to it. Then the lower back, a cramp that starts as discomfort and after six months is always there. Your shoulders rise, your neck locks. Your body stays clenched, as if someone were holding you in a fist and wouldn't let go.

Then the shift ends. You take off the jacket and get in the shower. If you're smart, you run it cold. Not because it's pleasant, but because it's the easiest way to tell your body the shift is over and it can let go. Your body doesn't believe it straight away, it needs time. And you don't have time, because in seven or eight hours you're standing in the same spot again.

Telo pamti svaku smenu

Kad uđeš u profesionalnu kuhinju, telo ti počne da radi kao mašina.

Stojiš osam, deset, dvanaest sati i krećeš se po dva kvadratna metra. Pokreti su brzi i ponavljaju se stotine puta. Podižeš tegle, nosiš lonce, savijaš se nad pločom koja greje na pedeset, šezdeset stepeni.

A telo sve to beleži.

Prvo stopala: tup bol koji više i ne primećuješ, jer si navikao. Onda donja leđa, grč koji počne kao nelagodnost, a posle šest meseci je stalno tu. Ramena se podignu, vrat se ukoči. Telo je stalno zgrčeno, kao da te neko drži u šaci i ne pušta.

Onda završiš smenu, skineš bluzu i uđeš pod tuš. Ako si pametan, pustiš hladnu vodu. Ne zato što je prijatno, nego zato što tako telu najlakše kažeš da je smena gotova i da može da se opusti. Telo ne poveruje odmah, treba mu vremena. A vremena nemaš, jer za sedam-osam sati opet stojiš na istom mestu.

Adrenaline — It Keeps You Going, Then Wears You Down

Nobody tells you you'll get hooked on adrenaline. But it happens.

Orders come in, the timer ticks, the chef wants everything right, and you're running five plates at once. Your body pumps out adrenaline and cortisol as if you were running from danger.

Your nervous system doesn't really tell a busy kitchen from real danger. When you walk out, the adrenaline doesn't stop. Your heart is still pounding, your thoughts still racing. You lie down and your brain replays the orders, the mistakes, everything that could have gone wrong.

And then you have a drink. Or two, or three, because you have to switch off somehow. I know it, we all know it. That drink after a shift isn't fun, it's medicine you give yourself. It helps tonight, and over time it pulls you in deeper.

Adrenalin — gura te, pa te troši

Niko ti ne kaže da ćeš se navući na adrenalin. A desi se.

Porudžbine ulaze, tajmer otkucava, šef traži da sve bude kako treba, a ti vodiš pet tanjira odjednom. Telo luči adrenalin i kortizol kao da bežiš od opasnosti.

Nervni sistem ne pravi veliku razliku između gužve u kuhinji i prave opasnosti. I kad izađeš iz kuhinje, adrenalin ne staje. Srce i dalje lupa, misli jure. Legneš, a mozak ti vrti porudžbine, greške i sve što je moglo da pođe naopako.

I onda popiješ piće. Ili dva, ili tri, jer moraš nekako da se ugasiš. Znam to, svi to znamo. Piće posle smene tu nije zabava, nego lek koji sam sebi daješ. Večeras pomogne, a s vremenom te samo dublje uvuče.

Waking Up — The Hardest Part of the Day

People who don't work in kitchens find it hard to understand why waking up is the worst part of the day. They think you're exaggerating. You're not, that's how the body works.

When you sleep four or five hours with high cortisol, your body doesn't recover. You don't get enough deep sleep, your muscles don't rebuild, your brain doesn't get to clear itself. You wake up more tired than when you went to bed, and that's meant literally: your body hasn't finished recovering and you're already dragging it up for another shift.

Then comes that moment. You sit on the edge of the bed, stare at the floor and ask yourself: can I do this one more day? And the answer is "I have to", not "I can". Somewhere along the way, the passion has turned into survival.

Buđenje — Najteži deo dana

Ko ne radi u kuhinji, teško razume zašto je buđenje najgori deo dana. Misli da preteruješ. Ne preteruješ, tako telo radi.

Kad spavaš četiri-pet sati sa povišenim kortizolom, telo se ne oporavi. Ne stigneš do dubokog sna, mišići se ne obnove, mozak ne stigne da se pročisti. Budiš se umorniji nego što si legao, i to doslovno: telo nije završilo oporavak, a ti ga već dižeš za novu smenu.

Onda dođe taj trenutak. Sedneš na ivicu kreveta, gledaš u pod i pitaš se: mogu li ovo još jedan dan? I odgovor je „moram“, a ne „mogu“. Negde usput strast se pretvorila u preživljavanje.

The Team — With a Good One, You Can Take More

If you have a good team, you can endure almost anything.

Someone covers for you when you're behind, someone cracks a joke at the right moment, someone quietly takes over a station when they see you going under. Of everything in a kitchen, a good team protects you the most.

But if new people turn up every week who don't know the job, if someone misses a shift without a word, if you're doing the work of two because there's no one else, every shift is twice as hard. You carry your own load and someone else's, and both your body and your head feel it.

Many cooks don't leave because of the work, they leave because of the team. Or rather, because there isn't one.

Ekipa — s dobrom se izdrži više

Ako imaš dobru ekipu, možeš izdržati gotovo sve.

Neko te pokrije kad kasniš, neko baci foru u pravom trenutku, neko ti bez reči preuzme poziciju kad vidi da padaš. Od svega u kuhinji, dobra ekipa te najviše čuva.

Ali ako svake nedelje dolaze novi ljudi koji ne znaju posao, ako neko ne dođe na smenu bez najave, ako radiš za dvoje jer nema ko drugi, svaka smena je duplo teža. Nosiš svoj teret i tuđi, i to osete i telo i glava.

Mnogi kuvari ne odu zbog posla, nego zbog ekipe. Tačnije, zato što ekipe nema.

Days Off — Luxury or Necessity?

"Real chefs don't ask for days off." That line has cost a lot of cooks their health.

In a trade where we're proud of how many hours we can last, a day off looks like weakness. But a day off isn't a luxury, it's the least your body and your head need to keep going.

And even when you get one, how many times have you spent it in bed, too tired to go out, to cook lunch for yourself (the irony again), to be present in your own life?

A day off spent recovering from your shifts isn't a day off. It's sick leave without a diagnosis.

Slobodni dani — Luksuz ili neophodnost?

„Pravi kuvari ne traže slobodne dane.“ Ta rečenica je mnoge kuvare koštala zdravlja.

U poslu u kom se ponosimo time koliko sati izdržimo, slobodan dan izgleda kao slabost. A on nije luksuz, nego najmanje što telu i glavi treba da bi izdržali.

A i kad ga imaš, koliko puta si ga proveo u krevetu, preumoran da izađeš, da skuvaš ručak sebi (opet ta ironija), da budeš prisutan u sopstvenom životu?

Slobodan dan koji potrošiš na oporavak od smena nije slobodan dan, nego bolovanje bez dijagnoze.

What Helps — Without Fake Positivity

I'm not going to tell you to meditate twenty minutes a day or go running in the morning. That advice usually comes from people who have never stood at a station for twelve hours.

Here's what actually helps, from the kitchen, for the kitchen:

Šta pomaže — bez lažnog pozitivizma

Neću ti reći da meditiraš dvadeset minuta dnevno ili da trčiš ujutru. To su obično saveti ljudi koji nisu stajali na stanici dvanaest sati.

Evo šta stvarno pomaže, iz kuhinje, za kuhinju:

Stop Surviving — Start Building

Everything above is about how to hold on. But holding on only buys time, it doesn't fix anything.

The real question is how to stop putting up with the kitchen and start shaping it.

Neville Goddard said something that sounds crazy until you try it: live as if what you want is already real. Don't hope, don't wish. Put yourself in that state, in your head, your feelings and your body, as if you were already there.

Sounds like a spiritual story with nothing to do with the kitchen? It has plenty to do with it, and quite directly.

What do most of us do? Show up, put out fires, push through to the end, go home and collapse into bed. The same tomorrow, and the same for years. No plan, no order, no picture of what that kitchen should look like, just chasing tickets.

But what if, instead of putting out fires, you started preventing them?

That means that in the morning, before your shift, you carry yourself as if your kitchen already works the way it should. Not "I hope today will be better", but "I run a kitchen that's in order, the team knows what to do, plates go out on time without panic." Sounds basic. But a cook who comes in afraid and a cook who comes in with a clear picture of how things should look don't work the same way. They make different decisions, talk to the team differently and handle the rush differently.

To be honest, the way it works now, this trade doesn't have much of a future. People are leaving kitchens, young people don't want to come in, experienced cooks leave worn out. A kitchen that uses people up and then replaces them can't last long.

It has to change. Order instead of constant chaos, prep that leaves no room for panic. Mise en place not just for ingredients, but for the whole flow of work, for the team, for how you talk to each other, and for your own head. And that won't come from the top, from owners watching their margins. It will come from cooks who decide they've had enough of just surviving and want to build something that makes sense.

Goddard said: feel it as already real, and your behaviour will start building that reality. In the kitchen, that means you stop acting like a victim and start changing things, even if it's only the two square metres around your station.

Prestani da preživljavaš — počni da gradiš

Sve ovo gore je o tome kako da izdržiš. Ali izdržavanje samo kupuje vreme, ništa ne rešava.

Pravo pitanje je kako da prestaneš da trpiš kuhinju i počneš da je oblikuješ.

Neville Goddard je rekao nešto što zvuči suludo dok ne probaš: živi kao da je ono što želiš već stvarnost. Nemoj da se nadaš i priželjkuješ, nego se postavi u to stanje, u glavi, u osećanjima i u telu, kao da si već tamo.

Zvuči kao duhovna priča koja nema veze s kuhinjom? Ima, i to direktno.

Šta radi većina nas? Dođe na smenu, gasi požare, izgura do kraja, ode kući i padne u krevet. Sutra isto, i tako godinama. Bez plana, bez reda, bez slike kako ta kuhinja treba da izgleda, samo trčanje za porudžbinama.

A šta ako, umesto da gasiš požare, počneš da ih sprečavaš?

To znači da se ujutru, pre smene, postaviš kao da tvoja kuhinja već radi onako kako treba. Ne „nadam se da će danas biti bolje“, nego „vodim kuhinju koja je sređena, ekipa zna šta radi, tanjiri izlaze na vreme i bez panike“. Zvuči banalno. Ali kuvar koji dolazi na smenu sa strahom i kuvar koji dolazi sa jasnom slikom kako stvari treba da izgledaju ne rade isto. Drugačije odlučuju, drugačije razgovaraju sa ekipom i drugačije podnose gužvu.

Da budem iskren, ovako kako sada radi, ovaj posao nema dugu budućnost. Ljudi odlaze iz kuhinja, mladi neće da uđu, iskusni odlaze istrošeni. Kuhinja koja ljude potroši do kraja pa ih zameni novima ne može dugo da traje.

To mora da se promeni. Red umesto večitog haosa, priprema posle koje nema panike. Mise en place ne samo za namirnice, nego i za ceo tok rada, za ekipu, za razgovor i za tvoju glavu. I to neće doći odozgo, od vlasnika koji gleda profit. Doći će od kuvara koji odluče da im je dosta preživljavanja i da hoće da grade nešto što ima smisla.

Goddard je govorio: oseti da je već tako, i tvoje ponašanje će početi da gradi tu stvarnost. U kuhinji to znači da prestaneš da se ponašaš kao žrtva i počneš da menjaš stvari, makar na svoja dva kvadratna metra oko stanice.

This Isn't Complaining

I'm not saying "don't become a cook". I'm saying be a cook with your eyes open. The kitchen is harsh and beautiful at the same time, and the beauty is no use to you if the harshness grinds you down.

Taking care of yourself isn't weakness. It's how you stay in the kitchen long enough to really learn the craft. And the craft doesn't take a year or two, it takes ten, fifteen, twenty years. You won't be there in twenty years if you wear yourself out before then.

Take care of yourself. Nobody else in that kitchen is going to do it for you.

Ovo nije kuknjava

Ne kažem „nemojte biti kuvari“. Kažem: budite kuvari, ali otvorenih očiju. Kuhinja je istovremeno surova i lepa, a od lepote nemaš ništa ako te surovost samelje.

Briga o sebi nije slabost. Samo tako ostaneš u kuhinji dovoljno dugo da stvarno naučiš zanat. A zanat se ne nauči za godinu-dve, nego za deset, petnaest, dvadeset godina. Nećeš biti tu za dvadeset godina ako se istrošiš pre toga.

Čuvaj sebe. Niko drugi u kuhinji to neće uraditi umesto tebe.