A friend pointed out to me recently, when I rolled my eyes at a publishing kerfuffle, that I was like a professional chef in a kitchen. I get burned every day. I have scars up and down my arms from hot pans, sharp knives, slamming walk-in doors, splattering oil. And a home cook says, “Holy shit, I burned myself because my hand slipped.” And my first, instinctive reaction is, “Yeah, that’s cooking. Grow up.”
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