by Trudy Graham

Created on: April 26, 2008   Last Updated: October 31, 2008

I've had many jobs over my lifetime, some good, some not so good, but the absolute worst job I ever had has to be my stint as a cook.

I love food, hate to cook, but can turn out a decent meal when I try, so when a job came up as cook for an on-shore crew in a small northern Australian prawning town, a job that included accommodation and meals for me and my two small children, I jumped at it, even though the pay itself wasn't the best.

There was an average of 20 workers who needed breakfast, smoko (morning tea), lunch and dinner 7 days a week. Because the position was for a short period, of around 3 months, I didn't see this as a problem; besides, the manager told me that if I ever felt a desperate need for a day off that he would find someone to fill in for me.

The actual breakfast preparation involved rising at 5 a.m., lighting the stoves, which were run on bottled gas, cooking about 4 dozen eggs, mountains of bacon, huge steaks and piles of tomatoes, and then putting all of that in the ovens to keep warm while I set the tables. My two kids ate their breakfast in the kitchen while I served the meal to the men. By the time I had got my eldest off to school, my youngest ready for the day, and cleaned up the breakfast things, it was time for smoko. For that, I had to make a batch of scones and damper, boil huge kettles of water and make large pots of tea, and put out mugs, milk and sugar. Cleaning that lot up was done in conjunction with the preparation of lunch, with dinner hot on its heels. In between, I supervised homework, managed some play time with my kids, and bathed and fed them.

I fell into bed that first night at 11 p.m. wondering what I had left myself in for. The days and weeks that followed were hell; even though I instigated some short cuts and managed to be more organised I just never seemed to have any time left over. Somehow I managed to throw a load of wash on now and again but nothing ever got ironed we learned to live with crumpled clothes and my hair, which badly needed cutting, was scraped back and tied into a tail. As for make-up, forget it!

The worst day in a progression of hellish days was the day the stove blew up in my face. I'd been complaining for days about the smell of gas from one particular oven but no-one listened. It was 5 a.m. I was bone weary and looking forward to the day off the manager had promised me for the following week, which is why I figured later on that I hadn't been aware of the increased gassy smell. One minute I was bending down to light the oven, the next I was on the other side of the room, on the floor. People, in various stages of dress and undress, rushed into the kitchen as I was puzzling over the awful smell of burning hair. It was only when I raised my hand to push my still unbound hair off my face and frizzy burnt clumps came away that I realised it was my hair that had burnt.

The face that greeted me in the mirror later, when I went to wash the ash off, was black, and my hair a frizzled mess. I had no eyebrows left, and my eyelashes were burned and clumped. Luckily I had no serious injuries and must have closed my eyes at the last second because, apart from a slight gritty feeling, my sight was okay.

Needless to say, management was red-faced about the incident. The stove was fixed that very day and anther worker employed so I could have a day off each week.

Although that was my worst job ever, I realise now that I learned a lot about time-management, about organizing my work load, about prioritising, and about workplace health and safety. And yes, I still love food, still hate to cook.

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