"The Line Cook," photo (manipulated) by staxnet, 2009
For flavor, not heat—the line cook calls on his holy trinity: hands dance their two-step with knives, kitchen mumblety-peg that’s left fine scars next to the burn marks and tattoos. This one’s God the Father, cher, he says as he winks at me, dicing the onion until we both cry; this, the Son (bell pepper almost comically green), that’s Eternal Life. And the celery, pale and thin, disappearing into the gumbo like the very Ghost? Spirit moves us, moves us all in mysterious ways, he says, belly and hips swaying as he stirs.