Not all arts are created equal. Some, like cooking or acting, are essentially social activities—think Mama Celeste spreading her arms and exclaiming “Abbondanza!” to the crowd at her dining table. Others, like composing music or painting, are intensely personal. Ninety-five percent of the creative process takes place inside the head of the artist, where no one else can see or help, or even unravel the mysterious mechanics of it.
I am a writer. My talent is one of those inward, solitary pursuits. I’m uniquely suited for it: I am fine by myself, even crave time alone with my own thoughts. I don’t like to be bossed; nor do I particularly care for being the boss. I work best on my own time, at my own speed, without distraction or interruption. I’m a deep and obsessive thinker. So, as it turned out, my brand of creative muse did not transfer well to an outward, social art. I don’t know why I thought it would.
I honestly thought that I could be successful with my own restaurant. I believed that, being of a creative bent, I could succeed at any endeavor that called for creativity. In the end, I proved myself utterly wrong. Not just because I was unsuited for sociable art. There was also the matter of passion. I knew and freely admitted that food was not my passion. I should have known I was setting myself up to fail.
Because we right-brained types are passionate. We are not low-key…we don’t fade into the background and make do with whatever pabulum life presents to us. That passion affects everything we do; even when we are not making use of our True Gifts. Because of that, I couldn’t be satisfied with running a restaurant that was just “okay.” Pretty decent, in fact, under the circumstances. But it was not great. It wasn’t even good (to my standards); and that, ultimately, drove me crazy. And I could not, by force of my own will, turn it into what I needed it to be to make me happy. I didn’t have the magic. I didn’t eat, sleep and breathe it, couldn’t go to that transcendent place where we artists are most complete. The result: Five years spent misdirecting my passion and spinning my wheels.
Awhile back, during my first year of restaurant ownership, I wrote something to the effect that I had chosen the restaurant as the outlet for my public creativity because I was too protective of my real passion. I truly believed there was no way I could ever put my real work out there, to be judged by the general population. I felt I could never disrespect it enough to tweak it or homogenize it in order to sell it. I would end up destitute, if the rejection didn’t kill me first.
But my effort to make a living by pouring all my creative life-force into something that was not my true gift failed miserably, and I’m left sitting at the end of a long detour that took me nowhere. Perhaps not nowhere, exactly, but certainly not to a place of joy and fulfillment. The place one finds oneself considering she should, by all rights, BE by the time she has reached her sixth decade of life. Or at least have been close enough to hear the music from the party.
In some ways, my attitude toward my talent has been formed by the society in which I live. Life is all about making money, isn’t it? What good is artistic fervor? Is it likely to put food on the table? When I was young, back in the days when it was time for me to decide what I would Do With My Life, there was no question that a Liberal Arts degree and a dime might buy a cup of coffee. Tacitly discouraging the college option, my parents pressed us girls to learn those great staple skills relegated to women in the 20th-century workplace: typing and shorthand. Get a “good” office job. “It’s a foot in the door,” my dad always said. As if a female foot in that door would have got anything but trampled by the crowds of men pushing through it.
Not that any of that mattered to me. My typing was miserable; shorthand was laughable to someone whose penmanship was erratic to the point of illegibility. (It seemed my mind was always going faster than my hand could follow…) But I got a job, because that’s what you did back then. Mine happened to be in a local high school hang-out pizza parlor. I enjoyed a modicum of success there. I did well. I made friends. I made money. And I clung to that industry for the next thirty-eight years. It was safe. It gave me an identity. It bought what I needed. It gave me a “pass” to keep me from going off in pursuit of what I really loved.
I have finally, I think, reached the expiration of that pass. I’m fifty-six years old, and I’m sitting on my suitcase with my head on my fist, wondering how now to get back to the right road, or at least a righter road, without wasting too much more of the time I have left. Which could be forty years, for all I know.
What I do know is that there has been a sea change in the way I view my talent, my intimate relationship with the written word. Yes, there are still a billion and six writers out there, a billion and five of whom are probably more successful than I could ever dream of being. And yes, the pressure to profit from one’s talent is still there—if anything, to a greater extent than ever existed when I was young. Everything is “extreme” now, isn’t it? It’s not just a matter of making a living doing what you love. You have to strike it rich; if you don’t make it straight to Oprah’s Book Club, you cannot possibly call yourself a writer.
Maybe I’m lucky; because at this point in my life, I’m perfectly willing and able to call “bullshit” on that line of thinking. I AM a writer. And my understanding of that fact, after half-a-lifetime of keeping it in my back pocket or waving at it from afar, is that I write because it is what I do. It is who I am. It is the part of the Great Spirit of the Universe that has been entrusted to me.
And you don’t treat that lightly. You approach it with awe and reverence, with joy and anticipation, with faith that the Spirit that is of you and in you will be sated simply through the act of recognizing, honoring and using that gift. It’s really not important that the general public understand or accept the words. My job—my joy and fulfillment—is to write them.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Squash Watch--Week 2
I'm almost ashamed to post this picture...
I'm afraid my procrastination has not done my poor little squashes any favors. They've been in the ground two weeks now. And the best I can say for them is that they haven't died.
In my defense (and to their extreme detriment, I fear) I was out of town most of last week. I trusted their care to the Intrepid Husband. He did keep them alive. Barely.
You may see in this picture that they have now acquired drip irrigation tubing around their little feet. Husband applied this for me last night...so maybe that will make up for his lack of solicitousness last week. Unfortunately, I had to mess around with the tubing after he ran it, and in doing so, I knocked the one flower off of plant No. 2. *#@&!!!!
However if you look closely at plant No. 3, you will see another flower that should open in a day or two. I have high hopes for it...I promise, I will not touch it!
The squashes and I appreciate your positive energy. That must be what is sustaining them, because I'm sure doing a piss poor job of it. Keep it up!
I'm afraid my procrastination has not done my poor little squashes any favors. They've been in the ground two weeks now. And the best I can say for them is that they haven't died.
In my defense (and to their extreme detriment, I fear) I was out of town most of last week. I trusted their care to the Intrepid Husband. He did keep them alive. Barely.
You may see in this picture that they have now acquired drip irrigation tubing around their little feet. Husband applied this for me last night...so maybe that will make up for his lack of solicitousness last week. Unfortunately, I had to mess around with the tubing after he ran it, and in doing so, I knocked the one flower off of plant No. 2. *#@&!!!!
However if you look closely at plant No. 3, you will see another flower that should open in a day or two. I have high hopes for it...I promise, I will not touch it!
The squashes and I appreciate your positive energy. That must be what is sustaining them, because I'm sure doing a piss poor job of it. Keep it up!
Monday, August 1, 2011
Backsliding
For a few days there, I thought we were headed in a positive direction. I suppose I want so badly to believe that the strife is over and we have begun to put real distance between ourselves and this rough spot in our road (rough spot? How about bottomless pot-hole?) that I get overly optimistic when I see any glimmer of hope.
Evidently the habit of attacking each other whenever we are under stress has become too ingrained. It is our knee-jerk reaction whenever we encounter anything other than glass-smooth sailing. One theory that has been whirling around is that, faced with a situation that makes us need to yell at someone or something, the only “safe,” or acceptable place to direct that negative emotion is at each other. You can’t go around screaming at strangers, or dressing down your in-laws, employer, employees, or co-workers. So all that garbage gets dumped on the person who is supposed to love you enough to take it.
Problem is, I really can’t. Take any more. After five years of processing more garbage than the local landfill, I’m buried. I suspect he is, too.
One bad thing is, with this lingering heel problem—the final fillip from that rathole café—I haven’t been able to do much walking. And walking helps me work through what I need to process. Ignoring my throbbing foot, I took a long walk yesterday morning; I did some productive ruminating.
I realized, for like the umpteenth time in my life, that you can’t change anyone but yourself. I can talk, leave, threaten, cajole, stand on my head, but there’s no guarantee the husband is ever going to change the way he treats me. He could…but I can’t count on that. I have a couple of choices here, but one of them is NOT getting him to act differently. It is I who has to make changes.
I have to accept that who he is now and how he relates to me now are facts. He is what he is. And then I have to decide whether to stay in the relationship based on that information. If I choose to stay, my job is to figure out how to forge an acceptable, peaceful relationship with the man I’m married to NOW…not the one I thought I married, nor the one to whom I would like to be married.
Yes, I am going to have to make changes. Rough times ahead, to be sure. Because another thing I’ve learned over the years, as a corollary to “You can’t change anyone but yourself,” is that changing yourself is about as easy as getting toothpaste back into the tube.
Oh, I don’t dispute that I have changed over the course of our married life. In fact, these last five years have been extremely formative. And not in a good way, I’m afraid. Which is, I’m sure, a large part of why the husband’s attitude toward me has shifted so drastically. I am a very different person than the one who stepped off into the unknown territory of entrepreneurship. So the husband either does not know how to, or has chosen not to, relate positively or lovingly to the person I am now.
So now, for the sake of peace in the household and sanity for both of us, I have some work to do. There are coping skills I need to master; I need to learn the art of negotiating—or not, as the situation demands. And I—who have freely admitted all my life that patience is not my virtue—have to divine a hidden well of that commodity and immerse myself in it. Somewhere, I have to find patience with the husband, and patience with myself. Without it, I’m afraid all my ruminating and planning and clarity will get me nowhere.
Evidently the habit of attacking each other whenever we are under stress has become too ingrained. It is our knee-jerk reaction whenever we encounter anything other than glass-smooth sailing. One theory that has been whirling around is that, faced with a situation that makes us need to yell at someone or something, the only “safe,” or acceptable place to direct that negative emotion is at each other. You can’t go around screaming at strangers, or dressing down your in-laws, employer, employees, or co-workers. So all that garbage gets dumped on the person who is supposed to love you enough to take it.
Problem is, I really can’t. Take any more. After five years of processing more garbage than the local landfill, I’m buried. I suspect he is, too.
One bad thing is, with this lingering heel problem—the final fillip from that rathole café—I haven’t been able to do much walking. And walking helps me work through what I need to process. Ignoring my throbbing foot, I took a long walk yesterday morning; I did some productive ruminating.
I realized, for like the umpteenth time in my life, that you can’t change anyone but yourself. I can talk, leave, threaten, cajole, stand on my head, but there’s no guarantee the husband is ever going to change the way he treats me. He could…but I can’t count on that. I have a couple of choices here, but one of them is NOT getting him to act differently. It is I who has to make changes.
I have to accept that who he is now and how he relates to me now are facts. He is what he is. And then I have to decide whether to stay in the relationship based on that information. If I choose to stay, my job is to figure out how to forge an acceptable, peaceful relationship with the man I’m married to NOW…not the one I thought I married, nor the one to whom I would like to be married.
Yes, I am going to have to make changes. Rough times ahead, to be sure. Because another thing I’ve learned over the years, as a corollary to “You can’t change anyone but yourself,” is that changing yourself is about as easy as getting toothpaste back into the tube.
Oh, I don’t dispute that I have changed over the course of our married life. In fact, these last five years have been extremely formative. And not in a good way, I’m afraid. Which is, I’m sure, a large part of why the husband’s attitude toward me has shifted so drastically. I am a very different person than the one who stepped off into the unknown territory of entrepreneurship. So the husband either does not know how to, or has chosen not to, relate positively or lovingly to the person I am now.
So now, for the sake of peace in the household and sanity for both of us, I have some work to do. There are coping skills I need to master; I need to learn the art of negotiating—or not, as the situation demands. And I—who have freely admitted all my life that patience is not my virtue—have to divine a hidden well of that commodity and immerse myself in it. Somewhere, I have to find patience with the husband, and patience with myself. Without it, I’m afraid all my ruminating and planning and clarity will get me nowhere.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Squash Watch
Every year, come hell or high water, I plant flowers in containers to adorn my outdoor living spaces. I’ve been doing it since we bought our first house in Oregon twenty-six years ago, when I fell in love with fuchsias and begonias and all the lovely plants that did not thrive in the Midwest. I remember coming home from late shifts at the bakery and watering hanging baskets in the dark. The neighbors would stop and exclaim, “Your flowers always look so beautiful!” Though I didn’t necessarily do it for the neighbors, it was always nice to know I had one of the more remarkable gardens on the block.
Even in the midst of all the fourteen–hour “Café Days,” when I barely had the time or energy to enjoy my outdoor spaces, much less decorate them—I carried on with that tradition. It was probably even more important during those frazzled years, to carve out the time to do something calming and joyful. And then sit back and watch the show until the November frosts or rains did their damage.
This spring, I was more eager than ever to get my hands in the dirt and plants in the ground. As it happened, neither the weather nor my energy level was particularly conducive to that undertaking. Spring weather actually arrived about three weeks ago. And though I wasn’t working those fourteen-hour days after May 8, my remaining commitments took up more of my time and depleted life-force than I had foreseen. Early season buying sprees—my eyes were definitely bigger than my oomph—had resulted in dozens of plants that had to go somewhere; they couldn’t spend the season moldering away in cardboard boxes on the deck (though many a plant had suffered that exact fate during the Café Days.) Despite the crummy weather and other challenges, I managed to get most of the plants properly situated by the time the County Fair came along.
One of the things I envisioned in this year’s early spring pipe dream was a vegetable garden. After all, I was going to have nothing but time, I reasoned as, in a fit of addle-brained impulse buying, I plunked three beautiful little squash plants into my wagon at the nursery. Butternut squash. Calling to mind the astonishing vigor of the only member of the squash family I had ever cultivated—zucchini—I figured that these guys should be a no-brainer. They would grow like crazy with little or no help from me; and, unlike zucchini, they would store well into the winter, so I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with them immediately upon harvest. Perfect!
But, oh…the trials those poor little guys have been through! First, they lived in the greenhouse for awhile, because as of the end of May, we had not yet stopped having frost. After about three weeks in there, they had to be summarily relocated, as they were getting cooked when the sun did come out, and I was afraid I would forget about them and that would be the end of them.
I repositioned the planting box I had in mind for them. I bought dirt and weed fabric to go in it. Around that time, I lost my momentum. The poor little squash plants sat on the deck, surrounded by a parade of annuals that came and went as I found and arranged pots. I continued to water and fret over the little squashes, but they started to dwindle. They grew spindly. They got mildew. For whatever reason, I just couldn’t get the mojo to assemble that planting box.
Finally, last week, I looked at them and said, “Now or never.” Realizing that I was never going to get that box together, I took my poor, sad looking little squash plants and hollowed out places for them in an empty strip along the fence, where I had planned (for about the last six years) to extend my shrub border.
They’ve been in the ground for about a week, now. I have been very solicitous about watering them. Even gave them a shot of Miracle Grow. And let me just say, they…haven’t died, which is probably saying a lot considering the condition they were in when I planted them. But they haven’t grown much, either.
So, here’s my plan, dear readers: Once a week, I’ll post a picture of them. We’ll watch them grow (or not) together. Any good thoughts or positive energy you can send their way will be appreciated.
Anyone want to take bets on whether we’ll actually get a harvest out of this?
Picture The First—July 27, 2011
Even in the midst of all the fourteen–hour “Café Days,” when I barely had the time or energy to enjoy my outdoor spaces, much less decorate them—I carried on with that tradition. It was probably even more important during those frazzled years, to carve out the time to do something calming and joyful. And then sit back and watch the show until the November frosts or rains did their damage.
This spring, I was more eager than ever to get my hands in the dirt and plants in the ground. As it happened, neither the weather nor my energy level was particularly conducive to that undertaking. Spring weather actually arrived about three weeks ago. And though I wasn’t working those fourteen-hour days after May 8, my remaining commitments took up more of my time and depleted life-force than I had foreseen. Early season buying sprees—my eyes were definitely bigger than my oomph—had resulted in dozens of plants that had to go somewhere; they couldn’t spend the season moldering away in cardboard boxes on the deck (though many a plant had suffered that exact fate during the Café Days.) Despite the crummy weather and other challenges, I managed to get most of the plants properly situated by the time the County Fair came along.
One of the things I envisioned in this year’s early spring pipe dream was a vegetable garden. After all, I was going to have nothing but time, I reasoned as, in a fit of addle-brained impulse buying, I plunked three beautiful little squash plants into my wagon at the nursery. Butternut squash. Calling to mind the astonishing vigor of the only member of the squash family I had ever cultivated—zucchini—I figured that these guys should be a no-brainer. They would grow like crazy with little or no help from me; and, unlike zucchini, they would store well into the winter, so I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with them immediately upon harvest. Perfect!
But, oh…the trials those poor little guys have been through! First, they lived in the greenhouse for awhile, because as of the end of May, we had not yet stopped having frost. After about three weeks in there, they had to be summarily relocated, as they were getting cooked when the sun did come out, and I was afraid I would forget about them and that would be the end of them.
I repositioned the planting box I had in mind for them. I bought dirt and weed fabric to go in it. Around that time, I lost my momentum. The poor little squash plants sat on the deck, surrounded by a parade of annuals that came and went as I found and arranged pots. I continued to water and fret over the little squashes, but they started to dwindle. They grew spindly. They got mildew. For whatever reason, I just couldn’t get the mojo to assemble that planting box.
Finally, last week, I looked at them and said, “Now or never.” Realizing that I was never going to get that box together, I took my poor, sad looking little squash plants and hollowed out places for them in an empty strip along the fence, where I had planned (for about the last six years) to extend my shrub border.
They’ve been in the ground for about a week, now. I have been very solicitous about watering them. Even gave them a shot of Miracle Grow. And let me just say, they…haven’t died, which is probably saying a lot considering the condition they were in when I planted them. But they haven’t grown much, either.
So, here’s my plan, dear readers: Once a week, I’ll post a picture of them. We’ll watch them grow (or not) together. Any good thoughts or positive energy you can send their way will be appreciated.
Anyone want to take bets on whether we’ll actually get a harvest out of this?
Picture The First—July 27, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
Looking Backward, Going Forward
Honestly, I can’t remember the last time that I posted twice in the same day. Most likely it was pre-café. Or possibly when my mother was ill back in 2007. Over the past five years, there have been months when I didn’t post two blog entries. The “Blog Archive” on my sidebar tells a story, doesn’t it?
From a high of over two hundred entries in 2004—the heyday of AOL J-land, evening out to an average of 120 or so per year for the next four years. Ten posts a month; continuing right on, I might add, into “café days.” Until 2009—when I took the restaurant to “the next level.” Forty-two entries in a whole year. Followed by 2010, when the bottom fell out. Another 42-entry year. True, I was writing for two blogs by then—“Terms…” and “Women On.” Still, the work was taking its toll.
I well remember the times I would come home from the restaurant utterly used up, wanting to write about it; I would sit in my chair, turn on my laptop…and play solitaire. So many nights I just didn’t have a creative atom left in my body; I could hardly pick out which pajamas to wear, much less string more than a dozen words together to form a coherent thought. It just added to my feeling that my life was slipping away from me…that I was being taken over by a force that was neither healthy nor nurturing. But I DID write. I never completely abandoned it. And what I wrote was, for the most part, passably decent. Even good, at times.
Because writing is, you know, my thing. Years ago—and I was looking for this in my archives, but I couldn’t find it—I wrote that restaurant was my work, but writing was my passion. I could do the restaurant thing; I was good at it (or so I believed); so I chose it as my career. Because putting it out there, even if the unthinkable happened and I failed at it, would not be as devastating as if I tried to live off my real passion—my writing—and failed. I didn’t know if I could handle it if I put everything into my writing and ended up getting chewed up and spit out by the world. What would I have left?
Well, the unthinkable has happened. As a restaurateur, I fell flat on my face. The culinary world did indeed chew me up and spit me out. It was…a great learning experience, if nothing else. I will feel blessed if “learning” is the most lasting damage I take away from the experience. But I have to wonder…did I set myself up to fail? I freely admitted that the restaurant was not my passion. How did I expect to work so hard for so long if the work itself was not feeding some deep need? In the end…I didn’t have what it took to grab greatness out of the jaws of mediocrity. We did “okay.” But okay wasn’t good enough.
So now I am left with a part-time concession business and (it is to be hoped) the continued good fortune of my husband keeping his job, which we thought was going away, to keep the wolves from the door.
And a Power which seems bent on making sure that I find no joy in any restaurant-related pursuits. And regularly sends me spiders…that animal spirit which signifies the gift for writing and the uniquely feminine perspective.
If I add all these things together, what answer should I be coming up with?
From a high of over two hundred entries in 2004—the heyday of AOL J-land, evening out to an average of 120 or so per year for the next four years. Ten posts a month; continuing right on, I might add, into “café days.” Until 2009—when I took the restaurant to “the next level.” Forty-two entries in a whole year. Followed by 2010, when the bottom fell out. Another 42-entry year. True, I was writing for two blogs by then—“Terms…” and “Women On.” Still, the work was taking its toll.
I well remember the times I would come home from the restaurant utterly used up, wanting to write about it; I would sit in my chair, turn on my laptop…and play solitaire. So many nights I just didn’t have a creative atom left in my body; I could hardly pick out which pajamas to wear, much less string more than a dozen words together to form a coherent thought. It just added to my feeling that my life was slipping away from me…that I was being taken over by a force that was neither healthy nor nurturing. But I DID write. I never completely abandoned it. And what I wrote was, for the most part, passably decent. Even good, at times.
Because writing is, you know, my thing. Years ago—and I was looking for this in my archives, but I couldn’t find it—I wrote that restaurant was my work, but writing was my passion. I could do the restaurant thing; I was good at it (or so I believed); so I chose it as my career. Because putting it out there, even if the unthinkable happened and I failed at it, would not be as devastating as if I tried to live off my real passion—my writing—and failed. I didn’t know if I could handle it if I put everything into my writing and ended up getting chewed up and spit out by the world. What would I have left?
Well, the unthinkable has happened. As a restaurateur, I fell flat on my face. The culinary world did indeed chew me up and spit me out. It was…a great learning experience, if nothing else. I will feel blessed if “learning” is the most lasting damage I take away from the experience. But I have to wonder…did I set myself up to fail? I freely admitted that the restaurant was not my passion. How did I expect to work so hard for so long if the work itself was not feeding some deep need? In the end…I didn’t have what it took to grab greatness out of the jaws of mediocrity. We did “okay.” But okay wasn’t good enough.
So now I am left with a part-time concession business and (it is to be hoped) the continued good fortune of my husband keeping his job, which we thought was going away, to keep the wolves from the door.
And a Power which seems bent on making sure that I find no joy in any restaurant-related pursuits. And regularly sends me spiders…that animal spirit which signifies the gift for writing and the uniquely feminine perspective.
If I add all these things together, what answer should I be coming up with?
Integration
Seems like I still need to write about my transition from frazzled business owner to woman of semi-leisure. That is, after all, what I know right now…and one of the rules imparted early on to neophyte writers is “Write what you know.” I shall, however, endeavor not to whine…
Three weeks ago, 99.9% of the physical baggage of the café was trundled out the door by a Portland restaurant supply house. I sorted out about half a pick-up load to be taken home—some frozen foods and dry goods that did not get used, selected pieces of equipment and smallwares that I guessed would be useful going forward with the concession business. It looked like a pitifully small collection, next to what we sent away. But integrating it into my kitchen and/or the storage space in our garage has proven tediously challenging.
I’ll admit that part of the challenge has been that I just don’t want to look at this stuff right now. I want to set it aside long enough for the bad feelings associated with it to lose their sting, and deal with it when I get around to it. But, you know, you can’t just leave it crammed in the back of the truck and the trailer. Especially when those two vehicles will be needed for our event coming up next month. So I had to once more snuff my burning desire to get away from all things café related, suck it up and get to work. But I wasn’t happy or nice about it. And, of course, we picked the hottest day of the year to mess with it. (I understand that our “hot” would be laughable to the rest of the country this year. Still, it was stuffy and muggy and would have been a day much better spent at the beach or in the woods or anywhere else doing anything else. And I am supposed to be ON VACATION!)
The thing that has been problematic about stowing these things is their sheer size. When one works in a commercial kitchen with gigantic appliances, fifty linear feet of shelving, under-counter storage galore, plus an 80 square foot dry storage closet, one doesn’t worry too much about where to put a 2 ½ gallon stock pot or a twenty quart mixer. The pot doesn’t fit in any of my kitchen cabinets; the mixer weighs about 200 lbs. and rides on a rolling dolly. The pot is currently taking up half my kitchen stovetop; the mixer was shoe-horned into the garage alongside the two ovens, eight freezers, two heated display cases, two hotboxes, three pan racks, folding tables, rolling carts, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum already stored there for the concession business.
I spent about an hour yesterday afternoon trading out my years-past-dated, household-sized jars of spices for the ones I salvaged from the café. Most of these will be used in production for the events we still do. But some—for instance, a 14 oz. container of fennel seed, nine inches tall and three inches wide—would last me and six other home cooks until the next millennium. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. But I physically could not throw it away. Guess I’ll have to research great fennel seed recipes.
Which brings up another problem: Cooking.
I am used to BIG—pots, utensils, containers, appliances, sinks. Now, let me just say that we didn’t buy our house ten years ago based on the merits of the kitchen. It is tiny and awkward, but we didn’t cook or entertain that much, so kitchen size was a non-issue for us. After five years preparing lots of meals for lots of people in a commercial cooking space, I find my little kitchen woefully inadequate. There is no counter space for prep, the task lighting is atrocious, my fridge (which seems to be the only design that will fit in the awkward space allotted it) can hardly hold a gallon of milk, much less a seven-quart container of…anything. When I try to cook or bake using my home-sized appliances and utensils, I feel like I’m playing Suzy Homemaker with my Easy-Bake Oven. It’s frustrating to the point where I literally cannot cook.
And I want to cook. I actually enjoy it, when I don’t have a gun to my head and a million other things to worry about. So I’m desperate for a space to indulge that passion. I can’t see us having the money to re-configure our current space. Maybe I should apply to one of those shows on HGTV, like The Ugliest Kitchen In America. “Dear HGTV: I am a retired restaurateur in dire need of a kitchen makeover…” Problem is, my kitchen isn’t really ugly. It just…sucks.
Those life lessons just keep streaming, don’t they? This week, I’ve learned that you never simply walk away from anything in life. You take it with you, it becomes part of you. Some things are assimilated more readily, more joyfully than others. It’s not always easy. Still, you have to make room in your “new” life for pieces of the “old” life; the ones you want to keep, and the ones that will go with you whether you want them or not. Those bits—wanted or otherwise—are what make a life. We would be so much less without them.
Three weeks ago, 99.9% of the physical baggage of the café was trundled out the door by a Portland restaurant supply house. I sorted out about half a pick-up load to be taken home—some frozen foods and dry goods that did not get used, selected pieces of equipment and smallwares that I guessed would be useful going forward with the concession business. It looked like a pitifully small collection, next to what we sent away. But integrating it into my kitchen and/or the storage space in our garage has proven tediously challenging.
I’ll admit that part of the challenge has been that I just don’t want to look at this stuff right now. I want to set it aside long enough for the bad feelings associated with it to lose their sting, and deal with it when I get around to it. But, you know, you can’t just leave it crammed in the back of the truck and the trailer. Especially when those two vehicles will be needed for our event coming up next month. So I had to once more snuff my burning desire to get away from all things café related, suck it up and get to work. But I wasn’t happy or nice about it. And, of course, we picked the hottest day of the year to mess with it. (I understand that our “hot” would be laughable to the rest of the country this year. Still, it was stuffy and muggy and would have been a day much better spent at the beach or in the woods or anywhere else doing anything else. And I am supposed to be ON VACATION!)
The thing that has been problematic about stowing these things is their sheer size. When one works in a commercial kitchen with gigantic appliances, fifty linear feet of shelving, under-counter storage galore, plus an 80 square foot dry storage closet, one doesn’t worry too much about where to put a 2 ½ gallon stock pot or a twenty quart mixer. The pot doesn’t fit in any of my kitchen cabinets; the mixer weighs about 200 lbs. and rides on a rolling dolly. The pot is currently taking up half my kitchen stovetop; the mixer was shoe-horned into the garage alongside the two ovens, eight freezers, two heated display cases, two hotboxes, three pan racks, folding tables, rolling carts, et cetera, et cetera, ad infinitum already stored there for the concession business.
I spent about an hour yesterday afternoon trading out my years-past-dated, household-sized jars of spices for the ones I salvaged from the café. Most of these will be used in production for the events we still do. But some—for instance, a 14 oz. container of fennel seed, nine inches tall and three inches wide—would last me and six other home cooks until the next millennium. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. But I physically could not throw it away. Guess I’ll have to research great fennel seed recipes.
Which brings up another problem: Cooking.
I am used to BIG—pots, utensils, containers, appliances, sinks. Now, let me just say that we didn’t buy our house ten years ago based on the merits of the kitchen. It is tiny and awkward, but we didn’t cook or entertain that much, so kitchen size was a non-issue for us. After five years preparing lots of meals for lots of people in a commercial cooking space, I find my little kitchen woefully inadequate. There is no counter space for prep, the task lighting is atrocious, my fridge (which seems to be the only design that will fit in the awkward space allotted it) can hardly hold a gallon of milk, much less a seven-quart container of…anything. When I try to cook or bake using my home-sized appliances and utensils, I feel like I’m playing Suzy Homemaker with my Easy-Bake Oven. It’s frustrating to the point where I literally cannot cook.
And I want to cook. I actually enjoy it, when I don’t have a gun to my head and a million other things to worry about. So I’m desperate for a space to indulge that passion. I can’t see us having the money to re-configure our current space. Maybe I should apply to one of those shows on HGTV, like The Ugliest Kitchen In America. “Dear HGTV: I am a retired restaurateur in dire need of a kitchen makeover…” Problem is, my kitchen isn’t really ugly. It just…sucks.
Those life lessons just keep streaming, don’t they? This week, I’ve learned that you never simply walk away from anything in life. You take it with you, it becomes part of you. Some things are assimilated more readily, more joyfully than others. It’s not always easy. Still, you have to make room in your “new” life for pieces of the “old” life; the ones you want to keep, and the ones that will go with you whether you want them or not. Those bits—wanted or otherwise—are what make a life. We would be so much less without them.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
The Stats Don't Lie
Here at blogger, we all have been given a little “stats” view upon which we can click from our dashboards. We can use it to check hits (by the hour) on our blogs, where the hits are coming from, what “google” searches are bringing us readers, that kind of thing. I admit, I’ve become mildly addicted to the “stats” page, just as I was to my hit counter at the old AOL J-land. These days, almost no one comments…seems like it just isn’t done anymore. So the only way to know if people are still interested is to check with the stats. (I should follow this with a declaration that I really don’t care if anyone reads…I write for myself—and blah, blah, blah. But y’all know that’s kind of a crock, so why waste the “ink?”)
The past few days, my stats page has been telling me a story, one I should have known without being told. Many of my recent posts have been, basically, vents—rants, whines, bitchfests, call them what you will. And my stats have been in the toilet. Then I cough up a post with a picture AND a cat, and suddenly I have readers again!
I get it. Everybody is tired of hearing me whine about my life. Even I am tired of whining about my life. I’ll admit, when I am feeling particularly lost, writing about my hurt and frustration helps me…what? Purge the demons? But, today at least, I’m feeling like it’s probably time to quit beating that dead horse for awhile.
I’m not quite up to mounting my political soapbox, yet (to the immense relief of most of my readers…) So it’s time to concentrate on something else.
Okay. Clean slate. Here I go.
Um…
Give me a minute to change gears, would ya? I’ll get back to you!
The past few days, my stats page has been telling me a story, one I should have known without being told. Many of my recent posts have been, basically, vents—rants, whines, bitchfests, call them what you will. And my stats have been in the toilet. Then I cough up a post with a picture AND a cat, and suddenly I have readers again!
I get it. Everybody is tired of hearing me whine about my life. Even I am tired of whining about my life. I’ll admit, when I am feeling particularly lost, writing about my hurt and frustration helps me…what? Purge the demons? But, today at least, I’m feeling like it’s probably time to quit beating that dead horse for awhile.
I’m not quite up to mounting my political soapbox, yet (to the immense relief of most of my readers…) So it’s time to concentrate on something else.
Okay. Clean slate. Here I go.
Um…
Give me a minute to change gears, would ya? I’ll get back to you!
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Tired Old Cat, Tired Old Camera
Those of you who have been with me awhile may remember "The Boys of Summer 2009." That was the year my mother's spirit sent me cats to protect, to worry over, and, I suspect, to take my mind off my own troubles.
Two of those boys are still with us. The picture below is of Orangie, who of course we do not call by that name anymore. His name has morphed from Orangie to O.J. to O-Ja-Moje to Mojay to Mojito... Nowadays, I just call him "Mo."
We have no idea how old Mo is... The vet told us it's difficult to tell with cats. He could be five or six...he could be ten or twelve. My feeling is that he's not a terribly old cat...probably the same age as "the boys" (Alvin and Theodore, whom we took in back in 2004 when they were but tiny weanlings...) But Mr. Mo lived by his wits for two years, fending for himself in the neighborhood, with no real home until he came to live with us. That can age a body some...so he has his issues.
This afternoon, I caught him dozing on the dining room table, using my old Minolta as a chin rest. Note the strapping tape on the camera--a couple of bounces off the concrete floor at the cafe broke the hatch to the battery compartment. It seems like all my favorite old cameras, at some point, end up held together with tape. My Mamiya--my very first SLR, which I bought with my tax refund back in 1975--looks very much the same.
Tired Old Cat, Tired Old Camera:
Two of those boys are still with us. The picture below is of Orangie, who of course we do not call by that name anymore. His name has morphed from Orangie to O.J. to O-Ja-Moje to Mojay to Mojito... Nowadays, I just call him "Mo."
We have no idea how old Mo is... The vet told us it's difficult to tell with cats. He could be five or six...he could be ten or twelve. My feeling is that he's not a terribly old cat...probably the same age as "the boys" (Alvin and Theodore, whom we took in back in 2004 when they were but tiny weanlings...) But Mr. Mo lived by his wits for two years, fending for himself in the neighborhood, with no real home until he came to live with us. That can age a body some...so he has his issues.
This afternoon, I caught him dozing on the dining room table, using my old Minolta as a chin rest. Note the strapping tape on the camera--a couple of bounces off the concrete floor at the cafe broke the hatch to the battery compartment. It seems like all my favorite old cameras, at some point, end up held together with tape. My Mamiya--my very first SLR, which I bought with my tax refund back in 1975--looks very much the same.
Tired Old Cat, Tired Old Camera:
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Happy Birthday to Me
The County Fair commitment is completed, and we’re still standing. That’s a good thing; because the way it looked a couple of weeks ago, not only might we not be still standing at the end of the fair, but we might not even be married. Long-term relationships…they are anything but easy. Sometimes it’s hard to say whether we love each other or hate each other. The line between the two gets to be so thin it’s almost invisible through bifocals…
Two weeks ago, I was so done with the battling. I need peace and comfort right now, and my own home was not providing that for me. Quite the opposite. Strife—spoken and unspoken—has haunted us since months before we closed the restaurant. It was in fact one of the reasons we closed the restaurant. But, as it turned out, closing the restaurant did not instantaneously make things all better between us…surprise! When preparing for the County Fair stirred up all the bad juju that swirled around us in the last few months at the café, I knew I simply could not do it anymore. I told the husband that, after our August event, I was going to need to get away for awhile.
That was a desperate move. But I felt like I was in the same place with him as I had been with my sisters after my dad died. There was so much sadness, so much hurt; we couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t work it out, and couldn’t ignore it. The only thing I could do was to take myself out of it; because being in the middle of it and trying to fight my way out wasn’t solving anything. We moved away; eventually, time and distance did the healing work of which our own clumsy hands were making such a mess.
So it has been with the husband and me. Since trying to talk about our issues always degraded into accusations and bitterness, I did the only thing I could think of to do: I wrote him a letter. It said a lot of things, but ended with:
Which brought about the actual conversation. Wherein I told him that I had not been kidding when, in the weeks just before we closed the café, I mortally offended him by talking about going on a retreat or going to Europe without him. Because, as our most recent behavior indicated, I really did need to get away. And he was one of the things I needed to get away from.
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Not to live with my sisters. I’m not dragging them into this. And I don’t have any money…”
“So what are your other options?”
“Maybe I can get a seasonal job somewhere that offers room and board. Or I can look into a volunteer opportunity. But I just need to…go.”
The conversation mostly ended there. He went to bed. And I stayed up and cried for a few hours.
But going forward, there were some noticeable changes. Subtle, but definite. During the fair, I was an exhausted, stressed-out mess. The husband, to his credit, did his best to support and relieve me. (Had he done otherwise, I’m sure we would be headed for divorce court. But I appreciate it, nonetheless.)
And then came my birthday. Upon which he completely stunned me by taking the day off to spend doing whatever I wanted to do. You have no idea what a concession this was for Mr. “My-Job-Always-Comes-First.” I woke up yesterday morning at 5:45 (the time he’s usually heading out the door) and there he was, snoring at my side. I gave him a shot with my elbow and said, “Hey…aren’t you supposed to be going to work?”
He said, “No. I took the day off. I’m your present!”
Wait. What’s that sound? Is that a flock of pigs flying overhead?
We didn’t do anything extraordinary. He didn’t take me to the symphony and then wine and dine me at an expensive restaurant. He didn’t pop a box of diamonds out of his pocket. We just…hung out. With my sister and her husband, no less, since they were passing through Portland on their way back from a trip to the Midwest.
It was special, though. Special that he knew this was the one thing he could do—the one gift he could give me—to let me know he got it.
I still may be striking out on my own for a couple of days, weeks, or months after our event in August. But…I think there may be hope for us yet.
Two weeks ago, I was so done with the battling. I need peace and comfort right now, and my own home was not providing that for me. Quite the opposite. Strife—spoken and unspoken—has haunted us since months before we closed the restaurant. It was in fact one of the reasons we closed the restaurant. But, as it turned out, closing the restaurant did not instantaneously make things all better between us…surprise! When preparing for the County Fair stirred up all the bad juju that swirled around us in the last few months at the café, I knew I simply could not do it anymore. I told the husband that, after our August event, I was going to need to get away for awhile.
That was a desperate move. But I felt like I was in the same place with him as I had been with my sisters after my dad died. There was so much sadness, so much hurt; we couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t work it out, and couldn’t ignore it. The only thing I could do was to take myself out of it; because being in the middle of it and trying to fight my way out wasn’t solving anything. We moved away; eventually, time and distance did the healing work of which our own clumsy hands were making such a mess.
So it has been with the husband and me. Since trying to talk about our issues always degraded into accusations and bitterness, I did the only thing I could think of to do: I wrote him a letter. It said a lot of things, but ended with:
“We…chose every day, for many years, to be the one upon
whom the other could always depend. But right now, we are not choosing that.
We’re choosing to hurt each other, to chafe at the bonds of our relationship, to
concentrate on the bad and forget the good. And talking about it, working it
out, does not appear to be an option. Perhaps we need some distance. Perhaps
time away from each other will help us see what there is to come back to. I
think it may be our only option. Because what we have going on right now is not
the way I would choose to spend the rest of my life. Would you?”
Which brought about the actual conversation. Wherein I told him that I had not been kidding when, in the weeks just before we closed the café, I mortally offended him by talking about going on a retreat or going to Europe without him. Because, as our most recent behavior indicated, I really did need to get away. And he was one of the things I needed to get away from.
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. Not to live with my sisters. I’m not dragging them into this. And I don’t have any money…”
“So what are your other options?”
“Maybe I can get a seasonal job somewhere that offers room and board. Or I can look into a volunteer opportunity. But I just need to…go.”
The conversation mostly ended there. He went to bed. And I stayed up and cried for a few hours.
But going forward, there were some noticeable changes. Subtle, but definite. During the fair, I was an exhausted, stressed-out mess. The husband, to his credit, did his best to support and relieve me. (Had he done otherwise, I’m sure we would be headed for divorce court. But I appreciate it, nonetheless.)
And then came my birthday. Upon which he completely stunned me by taking the day off to spend doing whatever I wanted to do. You have no idea what a concession this was for Mr. “My-Job-Always-Comes-First.” I woke up yesterday morning at 5:45 (the time he’s usually heading out the door) and there he was, snoring at my side. I gave him a shot with my elbow and said, “Hey…aren’t you supposed to be going to work?”
He said, “No. I took the day off. I’m your present!”
Wait. What’s that sound? Is that a flock of pigs flying overhead?
We didn’t do anything extraordinary. He didn’t take me to the symphony and then wine and dine me at an expensive restaurant. He didn’t pop a box of diamonds out of his pocket. We just…hung out. With my sister and her husband, no less, since they were passing through Portland on their way back from a trip to the Midwest.
It was special, though. Special that he knew this was the one thing he could do—the one gift he could give me—to let me know he got it.
I still may be striking out on my own for a couple of days, weeks, or months after our event in August. But…I think there may be hope for us yet.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Broken Record?
I know this blog is starting to read like a one-note symphony. My head seems to be stuffed with end-of-café issues. I suspect it’s because, immediately after the fact, I set all that aside and concentrated on resting and recovering. Unfortunately, no amount of rest seems to be enough. That became obvious last week, when my venture at the County Fair turned into an eight-day post-traumatic flashback.
It’s no surprise to anyone who knows anything about trauma: part of the recovery process is bringing the underlying issues to the surface and dealing with them. I thought that I had worked through those issues enough to get away with it. I had intentionally set the negative emotions aside and constructed a laundry list of all the reasons the cafe had not succeeded—from the economic climate to the scarcity of cooperative vendors. Things over which I had no control, and about which I had no clue going in; and proved to be more of a challenge than I could face alone. I thought I had constructed an iron-clad case against labeling the demise of my business venture a personal failure. Good and logical reasons, all. Very rational. But, apparently, rationalization is not the same as dealing.
Today, I feel as if I am right back at square one when it comes to the ignominious end of “living the dream.” Exhausted, sad, and desperate for something that will provide me with some personal validation. If the last eight days were a test, I failed. Miserably. I fell right back into the same destructive patterns I had developed over five frustrating years of being over-challenged and under-helped. So it’s time to stop wondering why everything I do turns to shit, and start owning my role in the excrement metamorphosis process. I’m sure it’s considerable.
And tomorrow is my birthday.
I so want it to be a day of celebration of where I’m going; rather than a tear-sodden reflection of where I’ve been. I don’t want to spend the day feeling sorry about where I have been the last five years. I want to see it as a learning experience; pack up the lessons and move on. If only it could be that simple.
Considering the call to balance I’m feeling on my life these days, I suspect that tomorrow will be—needs to be—a combination of joy and sorrow; anticipation and regret. Giving one more emphasis than the other will not move me in the direction I need to go.
It’s no surprise to anyone who knows anything about trauma: part of the recovery process is bringing the underlying issues to the surface and dealing with them. I thought that I had worked through those issues enough to get away with it. I had intentionally set the negative emotions aside and constructed a laundry list of all the reasons the cafe had not succeeded—from the economic climate to the scarcity of cooperative vendors. Things over which I had no control, and about which I had no clue going in; and proved to be more of a challenge than I could face alone. I thought I had constructed an iron-clad case against labeling the demise of my business venture a personal failure. Good and logical reasons, all. Very rational. But, apparently, rationalization is not the same as dealing.
Today, I feel as if I am right back at square one when it comes to the ignominious end of “living the dream.” Exhausted, sad, and desperate for something that will provide me with some personal validation. If the last eight days were a test, I failed. Miserably. I fell right back into the same destructive patterns I had developed over five frustrating years of being over-challenged and under-helped. So it’s time to stop wondering why everything I do turns to shit, and start owning my role in the excrement metamorphosis process. I’m sure it’s considerable.
And tomorrow is my birthday.
I so want it to be a day of celebration of where I’m going; rather than a tear-sodden reflection of where I’ve been. I don’t want to spend the day feeling sorry about where I have been the last five years. I want to see it as a learning experience; pack up the lessons and move on. If only it could be that simple.
Considering the call to balance I’m feeling on my life these days, I suspect that tomorrow will be—needs to be—a combination of joy and sorrow; anticipation and regret. Giving one more emphasis than the other will not move me in the direction I need to go.
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