Friday, 9 September 2011

Can the pot call the kettle black?

Town: Gore, NZ
As twilight falls, a thick mist engulfs the big top. The lights from our food caravan twinkle in the foggy moonlight. For a moment I am taken by the true and intense beauty of circus life. Then I look down at my hands.. elbow deep in the dish water, soaked in chicken lard and constantly finding floating lumps of indistinguishable unknown food leftovers. I cringe as my vegan hands rub past something that was slightly slimy. Sigh. Reality, it happens.

Everyone at the circus is on the roster - except for the bosses. We have a rotation -first meal you clean out the food kitchen, second you are on dishes, and the third, on the drying and putting away. It is often a fairly merry task - the three performers on duties each joking around and attempting to avoid the horror.. the nightmare.. the dreaded task of washing the.. *insert a loud scary drum roll*.. the 'black pot of death.'

The black death was a large iron cauldron like pot, heavy, charred and black with age. It had this amazing ability to turn everything it touches black. It is so feared by the cast, that everyone would cover the tables in newspaper, and wear gloves, just to move it into the dining area. Once touched by the black.. it was there forever, a lesson learned by many of my favourite items of clothing.

Luke was on chuck, he gave me an apologetic look as he delivered this doom pot to my side. "I think that is everything" he reassured
Nick was drying "Ah.. the black death.. Ha! Glad I'm not on dishes!" He teased. I flicked him with dishwater and looked down at the black filthy pot.
I nodded to myself. Gotta love the circus life.

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