eggbeater

The price of a racehorse

The price of a racehorse

Neither defines its worth nor designates its place
She is only as good as her last day
Only as fast as she can be

There are no guarantees

No insurance.

What is the return on investment?
When is the horse trusted to run fast?
Really fast?
Everyday.

The price of a racehorse
Is relative
Only to the price of other racehorses.

{If housework was quantifiable,
Men would have to be stay-at-home moms too.}
       good thing wives come cheap.

The price of a racehorse is hope.
Hours of training go unaccounted for.
You'll never pay for a trainer’s lost sleep.

Dedication cannot be bought.
Inspiration cannot be forced.
Legs cannot be bound
So they never break.

How does one train a horse to run fast?

Is it through force or suggestion?
Inspiration or starvation?

Will the owner, the payee, ever be satisfied?
Will the return on investment ever be noted?
Noticed. 

You could be doing better. I know you can.

Or is it part of the game—to constantly push, to constantly hope, to constantly withhold, to constantly demand and admonish.

Every race a new track. Every gun fired for the first time. Every gate, every judge, every clock, without memory, without prejudice.
Eyes unseeing.

The racehorse runs until she dies.
{This doesn’t have to be as terrible as it sounds.}

What was it all for?
Was her investment returned?
Was she more trouble than ribbons? Did her cost balance her wins?
Will people remember her when she’s left the track?

There is no price one can set for another.
There is no return on investment if one is never satisfied, if one plays so hard, pushes so fiercely, demands the world
Every day.
moments of amazing streaks of speed and grace,           are missed.

Faerie dust in the dustpan.
Horses  after horses after horses,
and where o where to put the decimal point?

There is no insurance that the race will always be won because it never happens always.

Trust
Is built, not demanded.
Trust is faith.
        Not empirical.

The price of a racehorse is dreams tied together with hope surrounding a package of desire.
        It is elusive at best.

And the horse?
She will run as fast as she can

Because she loves the feel of air
Coursing fast over her face, ears set back, four hooves afloat
        A streak of will and heft, power and grace
Both.

A pull from within
To be as bold as wind, singular as horizon
Inspired by no     one     named

Owned by             nothing
But that moment,

that whoosh.

2 January 2009

i have a new view.

are you listening mr. x? i heart you.

no, this is not a typo.

thank you for all the work you do.
and your particular way of blushing.
the way you explain machines.
your innate understanding of me.
your cranky letters.
thank you being bespeckled and brash and bashful and bizarre.

this biscuit's for you.

xx

where my home is, here

bunny stew. {sans bushy tail}

you know you're really living in a place when you get the flu that's going around. 

as a chef you know you're really sick when you get up, get dressed and put on a scarf and realize that that fever is truly kicking your ass and you,

deep breath

call in.

but then.

you have to go to Shepherd's Bush to get the exact right Orange Flower Water. No other will do. you've finally perfected a gluten-free cheesecake and you need orange flower water to seal the deal.

so, even though you're really sick, you make a plan to traverse the top end of London by the fabulous Overground.

and you tell two gorgeous fellows, who live in the 'hood, that you'll be nearby.

you know you're in the right standing when they invite you over for rabbit stew. a big bunny has been bought and butchered and you believe this to be the best, most restorative possibility one could wish for.

where am i?

lost but hopefully not forgotten.
without access to the internet.
tucked deep into the bowels of a London kitchen baking, cooking, experimenting, crying, rolling, cutting, decorating, discovering, tasting, brainstorming and trying to come up with recipes that can withstand a long ride in a big truck through the windy streets of London in the wee hours.
trying to stay warm in sub zero weather.
learning how to wear glitter.
creating documents for protocol and learning to love every aspect of excel.
missing the internet.
feeling homesick for any kind of seasonal fruit you can name.
wishing I could call America.
writing postcards from the London Transport Museum.
longing for snail mail letters.
reading trashy newspapers found on the Underground, Overground and on the ground.
watching the snow fall.
missing the sounds of voices I love.
staying tucked under mounds of duvet until the last minute.
drinking dozens of cups of tea.
buying every cookie and biscuit London has on offer.
watching closely the competition.
getting on and off hundreds of forms of public transportation.
wishing more than anything that I had the internet at my house.
incessaantly photographing the amazing light in my new little flat.
feeling isolated.
wishing I had more to do than work.
sitting through six hour meetings discussing every aspect of the business of baking.
missing reading blogs.
making batch after batch of cannele that do not come out correctly.
seeing January pass from behind scxarves and hats and gloves oh my.
hoping you'll still be my friend when I have the internet again.

are you well?
carrying on and keeping calm?
staying warm?
fixing stews?
enjoying root vegetables and apples and pears?

I miss you so.
I have not forgotten.
I have so many things to tell you.
I hope you can be patient.

xo