eggbeater

blind date.

nervous.
o, what to wear.
too hot outside.
clean the house.
thoroughly.
why?
something to do with all that strange energy.

blind dates are brave.

pick the restaurant.
second guess the choice a hundred times.
don't want to go someplace where everyone and the dishwasher know me.
or have crush on chef. or baker.
but want delicious food.
nervous.
giddy.
hot. oppressively so.

what if
it's dreadful,
feels too long,
can't get away fast enough?

but it's none of the above.
lovely.
more under the surface than one might know from a glance.
east coast. Jersey.
fishes. fly & sea.
freckles. and Jewish.
musician too.
has no tv, although has watched the Sopranos.
strong. works with hands.
this is important to me.
an upstart, too!

orders goat, i get porchetta.

it's an unexpected pleasure.
i like meeting new people.

an exceptional extra ordinary Royal Blenheim apricot sorbet sat between us.
tiny butter cookie speckled with polenta, sea salt and a raw sugar.
    yes, please.

and just to prove how small a world is.
we know someone in common.
someone i've known since my childhood.
Polly Frizzell. through bluegrass.
go figure.

walked away tingly.
not knowing, no.
but taking in the moment, experience.
have had a lot of dead end crushes lately,
would rather
    stolen kisses
    something to think about besides baked goods.
not that baked goods aren't fun. they are.

but it's summer.
and yes, there's also stone fruit, and bush berries, and coconut cream pie, and hot biscuits and ice cream and shorts and river swims and
everyone is out and about
looking good.
i'm looking for delicious people.
if you know anyone,
registration is now open.
xo

farm departure snapshots /in the rearview mirror

large hares bounding slowly, their long bodies arching long and wide
scent of mowed grasses, dry and sharp underfoot
abu & babette's ears, flapping in tune with each other and four foot dance trot
a clear, dark outline of one deer, stilled,
    and I stilled as well, viewed in secret, between levee and vineyard
a sense that isaac was on our walks with us
the Napa river, shallow but calling my name
    from way way down ravaged river walls
one extra ordinarily grand Great Blue Heron startled by our morning walk,
    lifting off immediately, unfurling fantastic wings tucked, and flying, unbelievably, through the river's fallen trees, up up, and disappearing
mosquitoes who will stop at nothing, including socks and bug spray and trousers, to sting me
an almost full moon casting thick silvery moonlight
    and drafting clear shadow outlines of barns and tree canopies

one Royal Blenheim apricot ripening slowly
guiding those I love through a place I love
hundreds of swallows dipping and swooping
    over an orange-golden field at dusk

glimmering dried grasses swaying, rocking
adult quails followed by dozens of tiny quailettes,
    their tiny head dresses trilling faster than the speed of sight!
babette, arched and exhilarated, tail curlique as a scorpion,
    at the prospect of catching a squirrel on the levee
seeing smoke on the horizon that is really topsoil upset by one tractor
barely ripe tomato, eaten, from the summer garden
morning skies viewed through Live Oak and Redwood tree branches
inviting people into the fig church
explaining cardoons to Easterners

tiny bunny, dead, at abu's feet
ground shadows of hunting hawks
listening to the wind before it arrived
eating green almonds
spending a Friday morning with my favorite 78 year old farmer
    and feeling the morning go from cool to hot in few hours   

cutting open green walnuts, still liquid where the nut meat should be
calamine lotion legs, hot pink exposed under summer shorts
    the scent of calamine like camp and grandmothers
an itch that is hot with unbearable-ness
having time to catch up on old New Yorkers
laughing aloud at Jay Raynor with no one to hear me but the dogs
bright sky, bold green grape leaves, dark vineyard in trellis-land:
    a three layered painting of opposites, at the same time
dusty shoelaces
sunscreen and still and Irish face reddened
bug bites galore
the quiet of nothing all the day long

a valley of light long after sunset
coyote skat filled with cherry pits
countless acorn hats
inpenatrable black walnuts and their finely dollhouse sculpted interiors
finding the old tractor
dense fuzz of young peaches
green figs camouflaged
one lemon gifted to a friend
seven days without music, or news
late nights with books in hand
long talks with faraway friends
burrs in furry friends' ears
a bird-stripped elderly cherry orchard

going out to eat at Ubuntu and then having more dessert at Redd!
visiting friends at Fatted Calf
mint chocolate chip ice cream from Three Twins
running into the most beautiful man/pastry chef, Gary Rulli, at The Oxbow Market {falling into his green eyes}

cooling the little farm house down with night air
green blackberries reaching out, waterless creek
skyscraper tall eucalyptus trees
freshly painted barns
rabbit warrens everywhere
coconut perfume breeze through fig trees
walking far far away with the dogs
babette stalking, leaping and bounding in tall dry grasses,
    psyching out small, hiding, frightened mammals
abu playing a game with me at dusk,
    running in wide circles, like hide and seek.

remembering
memory,
a silent movie of every visit, every stay, every walk with the dogs,
    every sleepover, every intimate moment,
a whirlwind romance,
a deep friendship,
a geography where my roots lay claim
love.

where my heart is, here.

Kitchen Transition

The first week of June is already proving to be quite interesting. I am attempting to move out of the kitchen where I have been baking so I can assume a slightly different role: I want to be in the background, building systems that can be easily implemented.

you can lead a chef to water

Today I spent most of the day with Excel, remembering what it's like to formulate equations for costing out recipes. Some people would rather pull each arm hair out one by one, but I love seeing the numbers in person, meeting them face to face.

knowledge is power

I'll still go in here and there to bake, to keep my hands floury, and to check in on the kitchen's ability to keep and stay organized. Costing out the menu is no small task. And I've given us 30 days.

June 30th is the last day of the 2nd quarter

For the pastry folks our recipes are fairly easy to cost out because we work in definitives already. But how much does an onion weigh? What's the weight of a diced onion? (They're different because when you dice an onion there's waste.) This is not about making the restaurant sterile with corporate details, it's about being sure where the bottom line is. If the bottom line is buried under the weight of question marks, those little curvy lines and dots will eventually dig a hole and bury the house.

the American economy is devastating restaurants right now

Tomorrow I head out to the farm. Pick cherries, roll around with the dogs, visit Patrick. Next week I go up for a spell to dog & farm sit. Am looking for slightly different work, because there are no pastry chef jobs here. Recently applied for 2 positions, complete with thick envelopes. Attempting to meet challenges, reach out.

Reach further.

here's a visual assignment ~

draw a circle.
write in the middle of the circle: panic zone
draw another circle, around the first circle, give about 2-3 inches leeway.
write on the outside of the second circle: comfort zone

If you can manage to live inside the second circle, hovering nearer to the first circle, you can accomplish some real learning. Here lies the challenge. Fear and terror reside here. But if you can manage it, take a leap. There's a whole world where you never knew before.

the phone rings. you answer it. you cry with joy, then with fear. you say yes. and then you live in zinging high perception land. you look at your world every day like you could eat and digest it. you never want to leave, to change, to reach, to leap.

but you keep saying yes.

where will I end up?

'tis not mine to know just yet.

Florida, coming to a close.

This afternoon I bid farewell to Florida. As always, visiting family is like looking into a very deep mirror of myself. I see who I am, who they are, who I am in their eyes, who they are and have become, who I can or might become. I see us all age, come into ourselves, and attempt to navigate old mines.

I see photos and take new ones. I lick wounds and create others. I visit places, both concrete and metaphysical, which sooth and sear.

As always, family is blood, and memories are shared, recreated, retold and reburied.

       

    we will not regret the past, nor wish to shut the door on it

/They say the only thing we can rely on is change.

one kitchen's loss is another's gain.

my last day here today.
my last day waking up at dark and getting home from the second place near dark.
don't get me wrong, it's exciting, but it will be good to be married to only one place soon. the polyamorous kitchen thing is not really my style.

one more class this saturday. then off to land of alligators and summer every day.

what's been interesting as of late is how challenging kitchens can be, physically. both for my own body but also for how they are laid out-- how a small restaurant chooses to spend its money on what equipment and what equipment might be missing for lack of space and bank account.

for example, not all restaurants have walk-ins, or freezers, or 20 Quart stand mixers. not all restaurants clean their spaces even when what they started with was something brand new and something they paid to build-out themselves.

these challenges are what make us better cooks, professionally. for we rely on efficiency to make us faster and be able to produce plates with finesse and cost effective numbers and percentages.

the thing is that everything is tied together with invisible chewing gum. one detail here connects to another detail there. and the chef/owner who thinks otherwise; a chef owner who thinks they can just hire people to connect the dots has got another thing coming when they see that the house comes down if there's no place that the roof joins with its walls and thus foundation.

I've done a lot in Excel lately. kitchen organization and recipe spreadsheets. what I like about the 2nd place is that my order can and wants to be utilized. there's a brand new team in the kitchen and we're all excited about being a team and supporting the chef owner to make her place the best it can be. I haven't had this feeling in a long time. perhaps it's my insane loyalty thing coming back to bite me in the ass, but I'm going to ride it for as long as I can. because here is a kitchen, a restaurant, run by a veteran, just like me, with a long, thorough, extensive resume; a person with values and the ability to take heed of what's really going on around her. I like it.

I like when I get to be a part of making something stronger, more efficient & organized. but this can only sustain itself if the owner and chef are on board. if the team turns its loyalties on a dime (as I saw was the case with my last job) or sells you down the river for a nickel, then the restaurant stagnates, or worse, dies.

yes, all restaurants, all people can re-invent themselves (we are in California remember), and start their day over at any point in 24 hours, but where is the heart, where is the soul and the intention of a house? every kitchen needs a leader, every restaurant needs a team. because not every house is a home, many are temporary lily pads, designed only for leaping off and to for a moment. or they're performative experiments.

I'm looking forward to waking up without an alarm clock tomorrow and not taking a shower while sleeping. the work is hard, yes, but soon it will be a little more rewarding. I seem to need to learn over and over that standing alone in a corner does not utilize all who I am as a cook. I'd rather be a cook among cooks, all working towards a goal with our integrity intact.

the last day of the month hosting the first day of spring.

March 31st.
Monday.
The start of the week and the end of a month.
My month.
The month where the last sign ends and the first sign begins.
You could say that the Persians have had it right all along-- the first day of spring, March 20th, is the new year.
Winter ends, spring begins.

        do you take note of first and last days?

The end of March.
Bittersweet.
What will April bring?
Showers?
Strawberries?
Field grown rhubarb?
Out of the hothouse, into the sun, into the ground.

New beginnings make me fearful and giddy all at the same time.

        remember you can always start your year over.

what dies to begin anew.

brain is mush.
want to sleep.
got sick after the festivities.
too much mirth, too much happiness.
the smiling headache stayed past the time it was supposed to.

and then the car got sick too.
but someone told me about the best autoshop ever and everything is going to be alright.
and i got to spend all day and all evening sunday with one of the best people that ever there was and so i can hold onto that when i'm drinking my liquids and sweating and aching. she came all the way from alabama to spend my 40th birthday with me!
and today i talked to my dad about the impending presidential election.
and
in a few days i will be announcing some april classes.

so i'm sorry if the brain has few verbs in it. or adjectives.
i want to tell you about snickerdoodles.
i want to tell you about one of the best, most generous gifts i was given, by all my friends and family, on saturday.
i want to       remember what i wanted to tell you about.

but in a few hours, before light washes over the east bay, i should be on my way to a small kitchen to bake pot de creme and make cookies and test chocolate things. and then i will see some of the foodblogging folks and they will eat some of my most simple desserts and all will feel at least a bit better.

ps. if you haven't noticed-- there are some new & intriguing links in my "blogs i have a crush on" column. take a look-see at 'em. thank you to those people who pass on the chef blogs when you find them... one day we will take the world. heh.

in herbal tea and crunchy veg salad,

can memories be composted?

what is the color of unrequited love?
where do memories in limbo go?
what if you miss something you shouldn't?
can you mourn something that was never yours?

        last night i dreamt of that kitchen. in it every object, every ingredient was on a table, a surface, in the whole house, the entire restaurant was covered in silent auction bids. although in real life there was never a waffle machine there I wanted that more than anything else and i topped the bids out at $2.25. people were packing cars. she who stole my name was going home again, to write a book about gingerbread houses. we moved around the space like familiar strangers, curt and.   
polite, if you could call it that.

can memories be composted?
what if a thought identifies as two opposing camps? can someone play for both teams?

    this is what you don't know. that in my dreams all is exposed, all is uncovered. in my dreams no one can lie.

who are you if you are not who you say you are?
are imposters compostable?
what if you stole something i couldn't let go of?

    one cheek slapped, and for the other, a kiss.

who labels blessings and who pens curses?
            g-d is doing for us what i cannot do for myself.

    in the dream i feel the steam in me letting. i am happy in that kind of exhausted way. my stomach empty. in the dreams of past kitchens they are always dark. quiet. i have these thoughts, these memories, all these things i want to say

    but it's all gone and there are only lines and bids and people's handwriting and we are milling about, barely looking at each other and looking down and bidding. hoping to take home something that will remind us. of what has been lost, what has been

     what has been someone's expensive toy, what has been someone's joy for the moment.

and where do i take those memories now?
will you compost them for me?
can't they make earth black and seeds warm and fruit grow?

deflated.

who will sail my wandering boat ashore?
who will bury my anguishes?

where do unspoken memories go?
can they be composted?

submerse me in yarn/ knit me anew

{these photos are the start of my 365 project at flickr}

at the turn of the year i made some quiet promises, voiced some hopes, about what i wanted out of 2008.

{of course it's up to me.}

and here i am

betwixt

&

between

/sometimes

god does for us what we cannot do for ourselves

{sometimes

we're not brave enough to make our own radical changes.}

suddenly february became empty

and in a few hours i will brave an experience that will prove to challenge me,

every part--

hands, heart, memory, past, love, skill, character

for one week.

i may not have access to email, eggbeater, telephone.

submerse me in yarn

wrap me in tangles

weave my heart anew

/shut eyelids

and allow me the grace to look inside,

{sometimes bravery is quiet}

reach deep

go beyond tears

touch

feel

let go/

let in

place, time, the now.

let in

truth

perspective

strength, bravery, perseverance

i want

you

to knit me anew

connect, string a line

back to the me i know i am, can be.

{our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate,
but that we are powerful beyond measure}

tie me in knots

hold me close

remind me where my feet are

take us to new depths

expand my colors

horizon, envelopes/boxes

{for what is the price of not telling compared to cost of the secret?}

o yarn

i take your lead

somersault into your recipe

instruction, direction

connect

me with past, future, present

untangle

my heart/

hold me close

whisper me close

submerse me in yarn

knit me anew

`

the dreadful phases of farewell.

They are irrefutable. No amount of hiding from the phases, the stages of feelings that go hand-in-hand with break-ups, passive lay-offs, intentional or sudden good-byes, death, departure, can remove one from all the feelings. The roller coaster of feelings. The feelings, that if all sitting together in a straight line, would look nothing like the next, would agree with not one thing the feeling sitting next to that one said, meant, spoke of.

First there's shock. With shock comes a particular brand of humour that only the most sarcastic can appreciate. It is true darkness. Flat faced humour. Not a lot of belly timber laughing, but these are the jokes everyone gets. Except the innocent.

Next comes exhilaration. "I didn't need that fucker anyways! Good riddance!"

Then. remorse. "I will miss getting beaten up." "I will miss my ineffective manager." "But I never got to scream one last time." "My team will never know how much I appreciated them." "I wish I had told her I loved her once more." "I wish I had fired that bastard..."

Of course there's always anxiety. This one permeates. It stinks you no matter how many times you shower. It crawls all over your skin like meth bugs, and yet no one can see them but you. Anxiety bugs burrow. "What did I do to cause this?" Your skin crawls with invisible crawlers. Even in sleep they find their way into your eyes, nose, ears. "What will I do?!" You wail at no one in particular.

You hope it won't come, the next one. You hope you're older, more mature. You hope you're power to reason will take over. You liked the second phase, when you could see how this door shutting could make another window, bigger, clearer, better; open wide to let in sun and fresh air and whimsical winds rush through you.

But the next one does come. Although you might not notice it if all you do is act out. It's a powerful force.

R A G E.  fury. Blind Anger shoots this way and that like a video game with no rules. It's contagious. Bitterness seeps out into dreams, muscles, all interactions. There is one, completely unanswerable word fueling it, behind it all. It's a short word, but a persistent one:

                                            Why?

And ours is not to question why.
For there is no answer. Only thin gasoline soaked through our clothes. Nervous fumes darting this way and that, burning nose hairs and making our minds sick with answerless questions, dizzy with madness, voices, ghosts,

                    we replay the scene over and over
                                                                                            and over and over and over
            and still it never makes sense.

I'm at that phase where I'm so angry and full of rage I might set someone on fire just by looking at them.

                and then it starts all over again. Although in a given minute, hour, week, day, month, it can morph into any configuration of all or some of the above. There could be a day of remorse and fury, followed by a sleepless night of anxiety and shock.

You dream that day, and the days before, over and over. Nightmares both real and imagined repeat like a printing press. Every night the layout is different but the headline is the same.

LOSS

is what it says.

I'm not saying it will never go away, subside, be subdued.

But I am saying that I know I need to get into my walking shoes because I have traversed this desert before, that it's a long trail. Made only longer with avoidance, with stick-my-head- in-the-sand mentality. Unlike some of the people in my family, I never had the option to hide from the responsibility that was me.

/If you want to help cool me down, meet me here this weekend for mint chocolate chip ice cream...