I am an assembly-line worker. We assemble chicken pot pies.
I am not a pie-maker. I am a small part of a large process. I do not pour chicken and green peas into the stainless steel vortex so they may churn round and round. People far to my left do that.
I do not stamp the pale flap of dough on top. People far to my left do that. Whap. Whap. Whap down the line.
People against my left elbow push the crust into rustic shapes like humans make. One finger of the right hand pushes dough against two fingers of the left hand. Pokepokepokepokepoke. I have heard stories that the first joint begins to hurt much sooner than you’d think. Pokepokepoke.
I do not bake the pies. People to my right do that.
I load six pies onto one tray and twelve trays onto one rack and push infinite racks until a horn blows. I am always in motion. I do not stop or allow one drip of sweat to touch a single pie as I push the racks.
I am a single cog in a clean machine.