Like Riding a Bike

This past weekend, my husband and I decided to go for a bike ride, to celebrate me successfully completing another 365 days of my life.  I had not been on my bike for five years, so when Hubby suggested we go for a bike ride, I was, oh, a bit uncomfortable at the idea.

When I told my husband that I was nervous about riding a bike, he looked at me incredulously and chuckled just a little at my fears.

Despite having ridden a bike through my childhood and college years, it was only about five years ago that I decided it might be a good thing to buy a bike and start riding again.  Hubby and I dutifully went off to look at bikes, and we settled on a pretty white one.  I sat down on the seat, pushed off to test drive it, and immediately fell over.  On Green Lake Drive.  On a busy warm spring day.  With all kinds of cars and people going by.  Ker plop.  I was down.

A gorgeous road rash burst into bloom on my knee, and a trail of blood starting gushing to the pavement.  The sales person was even more shaken than I was, getting me back inside the shop, having me sit down, and running off the fetch the first aid kit.  You know the whole rushing around with arms flailing in the air?  Okay, it wasn’t QUITE that dramatic, but it was close!

Having demolished their supply of Band-Aids and earned my Red Badge of Courage, I wrapped a piece of gauze around my knee, steadied my shaking hands, and yup, got back on that bike.

So you can understand, perhaps, why the thought of getting back on the white beast really was freaking me out.

Happily, the day ended with me NOT falling off the bike.  I even remembered the combination for the bike lock!  Hey hey, success!

As we made the circuit from North Seattle to Woodinville and back, I was back in Hilo, on my red bike with the pink streamers and sparkly paint.  We, the neighborhood kids, rode with impunity through our neighborhood.  We taunted barking dogs, terrorized sleeping cats, climbed hills and pretended that our bikes were jets, spaceships, horses, race cars, tanks and time machines.  Our bikes were so much more than just vehicles moving our childhood memories from one adventure to another.  Our bikes are what made our static drawings of childhood adventures into living breathing moving pictures, filmed in Technicolor with a hefty supply of Bacitracin and Band Aids at the ready.  Our bikes made us INVINCIBLE!

I wasn’t always a super hero on my bike, and am still very much NOT one.  My fledgling super hero days in bike riding involved countless crashes into the wild olive bushes that lined the end our driveway.  My mother would run alongside me, holding the bike steady and then PUSH!  Off she would launch me, telling me to PEDAL PEDAL PEDAL to gain speed and balance.  And nine times out of ten, I would pedal directly into the green embrace of those olive bushes.

I don’t know when or how I figured out the whole balance on two wheels thing, and I must admit, whoever was the first one who thought that it was possible is pretty much a genius.  And no, I am not an avid bike rider now.  I mean come on, it just doesn’t make sense!

But what I cherish when I’m riding, what I get from being back in the saddle is that return to the Super Girl of my youth.  So when you see me pedaling sedately by, just know that inside, Super Girl is doing backflips, wheelies and jumping curbs, making those sparkly pink streamers at the end of the handle bars fly in the wind.

 

 

Being Connected

I have always known I was adopted.  I think my parents told me as soon as I could comprehend what that meant. They didn’t want it to be that traumatic skeleton in the closet, a la soap opera plot line (cue organ playing and heavy stage curtains parting now).

I cannot tell you when I learned my birth name, or the events that led up to my arrival in America because those facts were taught to me quite early in life.  They were always a part of my childhood landscape.

I thought I had adjusted myself quite well, thank you very much, to being an adopted child.  Indeed, with so many adoptees seeking their birth parents and being open about wanting to know their history, much of the drama was gone, at least for me.  It just wasn’t a big deal.

I even turned down the opportunity to find my birth parents a few years ago when I was about to leave my post in South Korea.  It was my cooks who insisted that I find my birth mother, convincing me with the logic that even if I didn’t care to know what happened to her, SHE would want to know what happened to me.

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not that I didn’t care.  I just always assumed that she was dead and that I would one day meet her in Heaven or wherever one’s spirit goes and then I would be able to ask her all the questions I’d been hoarding for that moment.  I still think that.

My search in South Korea turned out to be fruitless.  In my flippant way, I told others and myself that this indeed proved my theory that I had been dropped onto this planet by aliens.  It was an easy way to cushion the disappointment.

A little over a year ago, my husband got me a genetic testing kit.  He said that it would be helpful for me since whenever I get asked family health history questions, I always have to pull the “I don’t know, I’m adopted” card.  I duly spit into the vial, and off it went to Central Headquarters courtesy of the United States Postal Service.

I received my results a few weeks later.  It was oddly comforting to know a bit more about my genetic makeup and what health issues I might face in the future.  I was fascinated at how “they” were able to trace how much of each gene pool I have in me, including 3% Neanderthal, whatever that means.  (I checked, I still don’t have hair on my knuckles nor do I walk with them dragging on the ground a la the common cartoon caricature, sorry to disappoint.)

Another feature of this service was the ability to find blood relatives.  I didn’t give this much thought, until a few days ago when I got a message from someone who shared a maternal great-great-great grandmother with me.  Maybe there should be one more “great” in there.  I don’t know, the whole how many times removed thing just confuses me.

I debated on answering that message.  I mean, I’ve been living my “solitary” life for the last 40 plus years.  No harm, no foul.  Never been troubled before about needing to know “my people” or having to belong.  I was quite happy in my circle of genetic uniqueness.

But hey, what the heck, right?

So I answered.  Surprisingly, my fourth cousin pinged me back almost right away.

That ping cracked my heart.

I never realized how alone I felt until I got that message.

Don’t get me wrong.  I have a loving sister, a husband that I treasure, friends that are gold and so much more.  I do not lack in the love and support department; indeed I count myself very blessed.

BUT A BLOOD RELATIVE.  Wow, the concept was staggering.  All of a sudden, in a few lines typed on some computer in Minnesota, I had a connection with someone who shared an ancestor with me.

Trippy, amazing, overwhelming.  I had to sit and just cry.

I don’t expect to automatically form a bond with this woman.  I think as we get to know each other that will or will not happen organically.  I don’t believe you have an affinity for someone just because you share a bloodline.  I do believe this woman is kind and shares many of the same emotions as I do, and I look forward to learning more about her.

I do wish we could have known the grandmother we shared.  I want to sit at her feet and hear the stories of our family, hear our history however long or short it may be. I want to see the characteristics we share, put a home to some of the quirky traits I have, have an explanation for why I do the things I do.  I want to connect.

My life hasn’t changed drastically since this discovery last week.  I still do dorky things like forget to put water in the coffee maker and so on.

But I do know now, not just on an intellectual level, that I am not alone.

And that’s awesome.

 

 

Difficult Bosses

This morning this blog post caught my eye.  At first, I thought it was a How-to-Complain-About-Your-Boss-to-HR manual.  But upon reading it, I discovered that it touched upon the very subject a friend and I had been discussing earlier this week:  What makes us tick and what we are looking for in an employee and why we’re not “just being bitchy.”

I think this blog post has it right.

One of the things I tell young cooks is that they need to figure out what gets a chef all riled up, and then not do those things.  While this may sound like ego-stroking, there are some important truths to be learned by following this logic.

I had this drilled into my brain in one of the first kitchens I worked in.  I was helping the chef make crème anglaise during his regular cooking classes.  I was new to his kitchen, and a freshman in the cooking world.  I intellectually KNEW I SHOULD have an ice bath, a clean container and a strainer ready for him to use the moment the sauce was finished.  BUT I DID NOT.

Needless to say, la merde hit le fan, with hurricane force.  And nothing, NOTHING quite brings a point home like having it screamed into your face in front of strangers, with la merde en vol.

Was he being unreasonable?  Yes, you could say that.  But I was also foolish to not have the proper mise-en-place ready.  The yelling may have assuaged his ego, but nothing could repair the overcooked sauce which now resembled sweet scrambled eggs.

This was my first lesson in seeing the big picture, anticipating what will be needed, and most importantly, making sure everything goes smoothly.  It was my first less-than gentle nudge into the mind of a chef.  Think like a chef, become a chef.  Think like a boss, become a boss.

I guess I could have huffed off into a corner and sulked, and I very well may have.  I can’t remember.  But I do know that every time I make crème anglaise, I have everything I will need ready beforehand, and I teach my cooks the same.

Another thing I tell cooks, especially sous chefs, is that if they cannot give me time off without worry, then I question their worth as an employee.

This may sound harsh, but is that not why we hire people we think are competent and able to do the job?  One of the lessons I learned through the years, and am learning still, is that I cannot do everything, and that I need to trust the people I hired to do the jobs for which I hired them.

This isn’t about whether or not we are best buddies, or how much we have in common or what the weather is on any particular day.  The question is whether or not you can do the job.  Can you solve a problem that has not yet happened?  When the flames flare up, are you going to be the one with the fire extinguisher, and more importantly, a plan to salvage and succeed despite the setback?

This is what runs through my mind during my work day.  The delivery didn’t show up?  I have a substitute ingredient already in mind.  The dishwasher called in sick?  No worries, here’s what we’ll do.  We ran out of cream?  Who can we send to get more or where can we find a cow?  My days sometimes feel like juggling acts, catching one ball while lofting another, all while running in circles.

This whole thinking like the chef thing seems like such hard work, and it is.  It means constantly being on your toes, always looking around, being aware, calculating and planning.  It is exhausting, but it does get easier.

As I graduated from cold pantry station cook to the hot line at lunch, the chef would stand on the other side of the pass, glaring at me and watching everything I did.  Every day I would gird myself, pull myself up by kitchen clog straps and march in, determined that this time, THIS time, he was not going to unnerve me and I would not go down in a ball of flames.

One day, the chef was late for lunch service.  As the minutes ticked by, my anxiety was growing, and still, no chef.  Several hours later he finally appeared.  He looked at me and said, “Miss, today I give you a big gift.  I trusted you with lunch.”  I think he also smiled.

If you think like a chef, you will be a chef.

It’s Like Dating

Well, it’s been a few months since my last post.  Okay, who am I kidding?  It’s been almost a year since my last post.

 So much has changed for me in the last year.  In September 2013 I closed my restaurant on Orcas Island.  That was a hard thing to do.  For all the stress, heartaches and aggravation that it brought me, that restaurant was my Declaration of Independence.  By opening Allium, I was telling the world, if anyone was listening, and more importantly, myself that I was confident enough to strike out on my own, to work for ME, to be beholden to no one else.  It was my graduation into the world of Being Your Own Boss, and all the thrills and glories that come with it.  It was a roller coaster ride of the grandest design, and when I walked away, I found myself hooked on the adrenaline of being a restaurateur.  

About a year ago, I decided that if I was going to open a new restaurant, it would be casual, with a focus on high-quality homemade food.  Okay, who am I kidding.  not IF, but WHEN.

When is now.  The concept of the idea has percolated and distilled itself into Gnocchi Bar. “What,” you say. “A restaurant based on gnocchi? Impossible!”

To which I reply that gnocchi was the biggest seller at Allium, the thing that people HAD to order, and if I were a smart business person, I would forged ahead with this idea.  To those who asked if having a restaurant based on one item would work, I say look at how cupcakes, burger, ramen, pizza, pho and donuts each have merited a home of their own.

So, how does this all relate to dating?

I think that dating requires a certain amount of thought.  You have to decide at some point and time that you are indeed ready to share your life with someone else, or at least explore the options of sharing your life with someone else.

You have to TRUST that you are able to do this.  Don’t discount this.  Exposing your emotional self and all your little quirks is scary than some of us may be willing to admit.

You have to date, a LOT.  You have to see what’s out there, what works for you, what you would avoid like the plague, what foibles and eccentricities you are willing to tolerate, and may even find adorable and funny.  You  have decide what’s right for you.  Every date helps you finetune what works for you, and also makes you a better partner for someone else.

You have to be brave enough to jump off that bridge, knowing that somehow, if everything goes kaput, you have the wherewithal to pull yourself out of freefall and arc out of it even stronger than before.

So it goes with opening a restaurant.

You decide that you are mature enough and wise enough to do it.  You’re wrong, of course, and half of what you SHOULD know you WON’T know until you have your trial-by-fire, but that’s okay.  The important thing is TO know that you will go through this, and to make sure you have the right support around you to survive the pants-kicking you’re about to get.

You have to look at LOTS of restaurants, dishes, ideas and locations.  Allium was my first crush, and I married it.  While it turned out okay, I sure am approaching this next business spouse with much more caution and wisdom.  Don’t marry the first person you date, don’t marry the first restaurant you see.

I’ve spent that last six months looking, cautiously at first, but now with more intensity, at locations for lease.  As my search progressed, I started learning what the right questions to ask were.  I started making checklists in my head, and becoming ruthless in figuring out what the deal breakers were.  Too small of a spot?  No go.  Too isolated a location?  Um, not for me.  Too expensive to open?  I’m not the sugar momma you’re looking for.

Cold?  Cruel?  Calculating?  Some may say yes, but I don’t think so.  I see nothing wrong with taking the time to find the right fit.  Don’t let anyone pigeonhole you into something that is not the right fit.  It’s better to walk away before any real investment in time, money and emotional currency is spent.

If you are seriously planning to spend the rest of your life with someone, if you are seriously planning to invest your blood, sweat and tears into a business, then don’t you owe it to yourself to make sure you’re happy with it?

No, you can’t foresee all the bumps in the road and nothing, I repeat, NOTHING ever goes as planned.  You adapt the restaurant into the space that it occupies.  On paper the words may dictate one thing, but each space has a personality of its own, and it will tell you what works and doesn’t.  But you have to be willing to listen.

The romance novels may say it’s all hearts and roses, but the reality is, everyone farts in bed.  As reality sets in, you adapt and adjust.  You can compromise on the little stuff, like milk brands, how you like the towels folded.  But not on the big stuff, like being honest, faithful and true.

You can alter the menu, the hours and the service to adapt, but you don’t compromise on your commitment to quality, ethics and fairness.

The hardest part is to admit that you don’t know.

The best lesson I learned was that I didn’t know everything, and more importantly, that was okay!  I didn’t need to know everything.  I needed to be aware of everything, but more importantly, I needed to hire the right people and TRUST them to do their jobs.  I needed to let go of the reigns enough to let others have the space to do what they do best, what I hired them for.

And so my Search of the Perfect Restaurant Space continues.  I’ve spent months planning on paper the financials of this place, how it will work, the principles that will drive our decisions.  When I find the right spot, I will know it.  I feel like what were once parallel tracks (idea vs reality) are now converging and I can almost see at what point they will intersect.

Stay tuned!

 

 

 

 

 

Motivation for a Buck

As you may know, a little over a year ago, I wrote a short story, chronicling the adventures of a humble dollar bill named Bucky.  As Bucky moved through the local economy, lives were improved and things got better.

People have asked me why I wrote that little book.  Last night, it became crystal clear to me.

A local came in with a job application.  I asked her how things were going, that I hadn’t seen her around for a bit.  Her voice broke as she told me that things were a little tough, that she had lost her house.  She tried so hard to put up a brave front, but it was evident that she was on her last reserves, that the stress and uncertainty were taking its toll on her.  It was hard to not break down and cry as I heard her story.

It is harder still to watch people who are losing what counts for many Americans as our security, our homes, for no other reason than greed and the chase of even greater profits.  Here is someone who is willing to work hard, who is not afraid to put her shoulder to the wheel, to get her hands dirty.  And yet, despite her best intentions, she can’t make it in this country, one of the richest in the world.

How is it possible, that in a land where the ultra rich have more golden toilets to sit on than they can count, that some people are lucky to even have one porcelain loo?

She wasn’t asking for a hand out.  She was asking for a job.

And the saddest part?

I have no work for her.

If you think you’re doing better, that it’s all going to be great, think again.  Your neighbors are still struggling.  That trip to the locally owned store, the extra dollar you tip your server, the vegetables you buy from the farmer in the field, that’s what my book is all about.

You make a reservation and you no-show?  Guess what?  You just cost a small business money in labor and time.  That server that was hoping for a good table and a good tip will now have to figure out some other way to make rent, to make ends meet.  You decide to save a couple of dollars by shopping at a big chain store instead of the mom and pop one down the street?  When that small store shuts down, you can take responsibility for it, because you helped its demise along.

Would you rather save a few bucks, and watch your local neighborhood wither away, struggle and scrape?  Or would you rather spend with more thought and consideration, and watch your community flourish?

I know it’s hard.  I get it.  I truly do.  The need seems to always outstrip the supply, the budget is always too thin, the belt too tight.  But can you please help your local community just a little?

Your dollar is your vote.  You can vote to keep your community thriving or you can vote to turn it into a ghost town.  The choice is yours.

Thank you.

For more information on Bucky The Dollar Bill, please visit http://spreadthebucky.com/.  Come meet me in person on April 22 from 3:30 to 5:30 at Bartell’s (our local drug store) at the University Village or on April 23 from 3:30 to 5:30 at the Bartell’s in the Bellevue Village.

 

So You Wannt Be A Chef…..

A friend of mine asked me a little while ago for my thoughts and advice on entering the cooking world.  Here is what I told her:

The first thing I would ask anyone seeking to make a career change to the food sector is WHY do you want to do so? There is no right or wrong answer, but depending on what your answer is, you might find that this is not the path for you.

If you think cooking is a fast-track to fame and fortune, you dream of being the next great television chef , then there is a great chance you will be sorely disappointed. I’ve met a few television chefs, and it seems the common denominator for many is having an larger-than-life personality and the ability to be outrageous.  Yup, I’ve given up my dreams of fortune and glory.

Cooking, at least for me, is about feeding people. This is a realization I have come to after almost 18 years in the biz. It is a humble craft, and very temporal. Think about it. What someone eats today becomes compost tomorrow.

Cooking is NOT an art. Oh yes, there are aesthetics involved. But we are artisans, not artists. Our job is to produce the same consistent results day in/day out. The gnocchi is the biggest seller on the menu, and I have regulars who come in just for that. It doesn’t matter what kind of mood I’m in, how I’m feeling, what’s going on around me. The gnocchi has to be at the same standard every time. This is the hardest thing for me to convey to young cooks.

What is your end goal? Do you hope to have your own place someday? And if you do, then learn basic accounting now. Learn to use social media, start making contacts in the food community.  Decide what’s important to you in business.  Is it pure profit?  Is it a venue for personal expression?  Do you want to be a part of a community? What are you standards for running your business, the people from whom you buy, the people with whom you work?  Figure out your business ethics DNA now, and work to stay true to it.

If you do end up with your own restaurant, understand that cooking will be the last thing you will worry about at the end of the day. You should open a restaurant when you can cook on auto-pilot, not because you don’t care, but because there are so many other things that will need your attention:

making sure the restaurant is clean
updating the website
doing the books
ordering
scheduling equipment maintenance, repair
taking out the trash, doing dishes to save on labor costs, or when you can’t find a dishwasher
hiring/coaching/training employees
stressing about paying rent/bills/payroll

AND SO MUCH MORE.

At some point, cooking will become a relief, because here is the ONE thing you can do instinctively and well.

If you stay in the cooking world as an employee, know that this profession seems to attract people with “issues”—- drugs, alcohol and things I’ve never even considered.  Some of them just show up and do the job, because that is all they can do.  Are you able to see people through their faults, and value their attributes?  At what point do you say enough is enough and jettison someone who is weighing your operation down?  Like attracts like, and those who think like you will be attracted to working for you.  Keep your standards high, and eventually you will find yourself surrounded by people with the same mindset.

What will set you ahead? Stay clean, stay sober, show up and give 110% every day. Understand that on the other side of the plate is a real live person who is going to EAT THE FOOD YOU JUST MADE. Don’t phone it in. Get discouraged (you’re human) but don’t let it show on the plate.

As Escoffier once said, a cook can be tired, but the guest must never know he is tired.

In other words, be professional.

You won’t get rich at this, at least not for the first few years. And it seems there is a trade off—- stay in the corporate world where the higher up the ladder you go, the less you will cook.  You will make a comfortable living in return.  Or stay in small establishments where you most likely will not have benefits, but because of the very nature of the beast, you will be cooking.  And trust me, there are many days when I crave the security of working for a big hotel or company.

Would I do it again. Hells yes. Would I do things differently? I’m not sure. I think every thing I’ve done has made me a better cook, chef, person, and the last one is the most important one.

One last piece of advice: don’t spend big bucks on a long program.  I chose a school with a short intensive curriculum.  The school I went to taught me the nuts and bolts of good French cooking techniques, in a year, with vast amounts of hands-on classroom experience and real-life on the job training.

I’m not trying to discourage you. I just want you to have a realistic idea of what is involved in this crazy addictive restaurant world.  Still going to take the plunge?  Then come on in, the water is fine.

 

Driving Miss Daisy

This is my favorite time of year.

I could be a tad biased, as I was born in the spring.  I could be like most of us in the northern grayer climes, desperate for sun, warmth, spring flowers and the promise of a gentler season right around the corner.  I don’t remember feeling this way while growing up in a season-less place, somewhere the months rolled right into each other, the only line of demarcation being the amount of rain or sun in any given day.

But now, now I take great pleasure in driving through the Skagit Valley on my way down from Orcas.  I love seeing the earth waking from a cold slumber, shaking off the frosty fingers of winter.  I pass by graceful farmhouses that remind me of dowager aunts in calico dresses who patiently wait on their porches for your next visit, tea and cookies ever at the ready.  I mark the passage of another year by how much further a barn has sagged, how much more moss has grown on the roof.  I revel in the sight of neon green willow tips, reddish blueberry shoots, raspberry canes fresh from the barber and sprouting new beards.  I thrill at the sight of bald eagles visible in bare branches, starlings giving chase to over-familiar hawks, and snow geese kiting over fields like acrobats.

I know I am zipping through these country lanes, taking in the wall of colors from the daffodil and tulip fields, pushing on to the freeway and to Seattle, but the feeling I get is of being in a slower time, when people knew their neighbors well enough to borrow a cup of sugar.

It’s a romanticized notion, yes.  I see the derelict farm equipment, the “for sale” signs, and know that this area has been as hard hit, if not more, as the big city by the recent economic downturn.  But when one is cruising by at fifty miles per hour, it is harder to spot the imperfections, and maybe I like it that way.  It’s much like how we romanticize life in castles with knights and such, ignoring the fact that there was no indoor plumbing or central heating.

As I turn the car for the freeway, the kindly farmhouse aunts tell me they will keep the porch lights on, to hurry back for another visit, knowing full well it will be another year before they see me again.  I shoot back onto I5 at seventy miles an hour, reassured in knowing this touchstone of a valley is still there for me.

 

It’s All Magic

At first, it seems like cooking and writing are on opposite ends of the spectrum, and never the twain shall meet.

Cooks are those bad-ass, tattooed, pierced rebels of society who work odd hours and fly in the face of social norms.  Well, at least that’s what television shows would have us believe.

Writers are sage creatures, sporting tweed jackets with elbow patches, long flowing skirts and sensible shoes.  They fling themselves headlong into the wilds of Borneo, seeking visceral first-hand experience for their imminent novel about the intrepid treasure hunter seeking fortune and glory.  Or at least that’s the image of writers many of us have in our minds.

Truth is, cooks are just dorky, sometimes socially awkward people who hide behind their aprons and chef jackets, and find it easier to talk to a steak on the grill than hold a conversation at a cocktail party.  And no, one’s prowess in the kitchen does not have a direct correlation to the number of tattoos one sports (also contrary to the “reality” of television shows).

That rarefied air that writers breathe, well, it’s just plain ole oxygen.  It is often inhaled as we sit in our bathrobes and bunny slippers and write at two in the afternoon.  No tweed jackets, no elbow patches, no wild jaunts into unknown jungles.

So what do we have in common?  We take elementary ingredients and transform them into extraordinary.

For instance, in cooking, we take milk, sugar and eggs and make these three humble ingredients into a luscious custard.  Or we add a squeeze of lemon juice to a rich dish, such as scallops, to bring the flavor into focus and sharpen the edges of the taste.  We subject these ingredients to methods that will bring out their best sides.

Scrambled eggs are my favorite example.  We could simply crack a few eggs in a bowl, toss in some salt and pepper, whisk that puppy around and throw it into a hot pan.  Swish the mixture around et voila, in three minutes or so, you have scrambled eggs.

Or….we could take the same eggs, add some cream and Dijon mustard to them.  We could then cook them gently with butter over a steam bath to make soft pillows of eggs, unlike the standard breakfast fare many of us grew up with.

In writing, we take a basic command such as “Bring milk” into a softer more poetic direction when we say it like this: “Would you kindly bring the milk here?”  We make it more palatable, pleasing to the ear.  The hearer thinks that by bringing the milk to us, they are granting us a favor.  The simple act of bringing the milk over becomes a much more genteel act.

We’re taking basic building blocks of food and language, and through our manipulation, transforming them into a sum greater than all the parts.  A little butter here, a graceful adjective there, and suddenly the world’s a nicer place.

Another similarity between cooking and writing is that it takes time to hone our crafts.  While we may start with raw talent at a young age, it takes immeasurable years of trial, error, failure and defeat to file away the sharp edges and polish the final product.  I know I look back at my early attempts at cooking, menus, writing and cringe at times.  With maturity, our works take on a patina that cannot be rushed or faked.  It can only happen with experience, many failures and few successes along the way to buoy one’s spirits.

We push ourselves to get better, to achieve more.  We study under the tutelage of those who we think can help us, those who we admire. We read voraciously, trying to find the key to great writing.  We expose ourselves to criticism, and go back to the drawing board. This process never ends.  What does change is how far we fall.  As we gain more experience, our valleys become more shallow and the climb back up gets easier.

The road to perfection, however, is never ending.  If your internal GPS tells that you’ve arrived, you might want to either check your unit for errors or upgrade to a more reliable one.  The road to perfection goes on forever into the horizon, and really, that’s what is so wonderful about it.

Writers and cooks, so very much alike we are, in our quest to make an everyday thing (reading, eating) into a joy and a happy memory.

 

 

 

 

 

Madrid–>> Cordoba–>> Madrid

So many anecdotes rattle around in my brain, time to write another one down….

On our honeymoon, despite the rough start, the Parisian “welcome” and the lack of luggage, Hubby and I went forth bravely with our itinerary.  On the list was Cordoba, the very name which brings to mind Moorish castles, the quintessential Spanish landscape and Ricardo Montalban (this one I can’t explain, but somehow the two go hand in hand in my brain, get over it).

One thing about Spain, even in the dead of winter, is that the sun shines and the sky is blue.

As our train wended its way through the countryside, the contrast of red soil, dusky green olive trees, purple and black olives ripening and patches of white snow (the damn snow again) was breathtaking.  I was entranced by the ever changing light and landscape; Hubby was entranced by the ever-so-small bottles of olive oil which accompanied our Lilliputian meals on-board. (I think we still have a bottlette or two in our kitchen cupboards.)  “Mamma Mia” was the movie, and the only thing I understood was the songs.

We arrived in Cordoba, and walked into town.  The Mezquita, of course, was a must.  As we strolled through the courtyard and over the old cobblestones, we were greeted by orange trees ripe with fruit.  We ducked into a modest-looking red building, and were enthralled by the richness of the interior, the lavishness of the chapels, the ornate decorations, and the immense size of this place.  From the outside, it appears much smaller.

As we explored the town of Cordoba itself, I discovered this seemed to be a theme: modest outside hiding delightful patios and gardens from the prying eyes of strangers.  There was a strong sensibility of Arabic influence, in the repetition of arches, scrolling, motifs and lettering.  All of it was so graceful, and yet, one had to know to look for it.  To walk quickly through the streets without pausing was to miss it all.

We stood on a bridge the Romans built two thousand years before, and I could almost hear and see the men who made this causeway, connecting one bank of the river to the other.  I wondered as I walked across it if they had any inkling that two thousand years into the future, people would still be using it, and if so, would they have believed it.

There was a sense of past married comfortably with the present in this town, that everything tied in, worked together, was part of the same story.

As our day drew to a close, we headed back to the train station, and here is where another travel mishap begins.

Have you ever heard announcements over the loudspeakers in a train station, and if so, have you ever really understood what was being said to you?  If you have, congratulations.  You may be the only person to do so.

Well, Hubby and I heard Spanish echoing information about the trains and we kept checking the departure board.  We presented ourselves at what we thought was the right platform at the right time.  Our departure platform had changed, so we went to the new one and waited.  And waited.  And waited some more.

I noticed that a fast train had come and gone at our original platform, but paid no attention to where that train was headed.

Ten minutes went by.  Twenty.  Thirty.  More blathering in unintelligible-to-me Spanish.  It was rush hour, and the platforms were full.

Finally a train pulls up, but, wait a minute, this train is a regional train, a slow train.  This is not, cannot be the fast train to Madrid.  There is no way that this train is going to get us to Madrid in two hours. THIS train looks like it might take two days!!  I look around in panic, and like a fish swimming upstream, wade through the crowd and find a railway employee.

I show her our tickets, and thankfully, she speaks English.  (I would like to note that in an attempt to NOT BE THE UGLY AMERICAN, I had been learning Spanish for this trip, and could ask silly things like where is the nearest metro station, but trying to navigate the Spanish rail system was way over my head.)  She looks at our tickets, looks at us, and quickly and correctly surmises that we haven’t got a bloody clue as to what we are doing.

She brings us back upstairs to the ticket office and makes us sit in two chairs right in front of her, telling us NOT TO MOVE.  Hubby and I sit there like chastised children as she explains to us that yes, they did switch the tracks, and then switched the tracks back again to the original ones.  So yes, the fast train that I saw pull up was indeed, our train.  All the trains are running full; she is really trying her best to get us back to Madrid.  Her manager tells her to get us back to Madrid any way she can.  Oh god, I hope that doesn’t mean a cattle car.

A train is approaching and she gets us up, almost holds our hand as she walks us to the platform.  She converses with the conductor who tells her the train is “completo” , full full full, but we can sit in the cafeteria.  We are eager to get back to our apartment and agree to this.  She literally hands us off  and does not leave the platform until the train starts to pull out of the station.  I think she is afraid we will sneak off for more adventures in the station.

As the train starts to move, the conductor approaches us and tell us he has found two seats for us.  We follow him, and he gives us use of two crew jumpseats facing each other.  Hubby and I gratefully sink down, and despite the awkwardness of the seats, manage to fall asleep.  We arrive in Madrid at around ten that evening, full of adventures, tired, happy, overwhelmed, and laughing at how trying the traveling on this honeymoon is becoming.

As we sit in our apartment, have a glass of wine, chuckle to ourselves, we know this, too, will be another wonderful addition to our honeymoon tales.

And then we go the sushi restaurant down the street and proceed to make them really nervous just by our presence…..

Honeymoon Woes

Being in the restaurant business means that much, if not all, of your life schedule turns around the needs of the public.  You open on weekends, holidays, nights.  You work when the majority of the world has time off, and is hopefully dining in your establishment.

So it made perfect sense to me to pick early January as the time for our wedding.  Holiday parties would be over, the frenzy for Valentine’s Day would still be over a month away, and, as my weather reporter-wannabe husband assured me, January is typically a Chinook month, meaning warm and no snow.

What’s that saying, famous last words???

The December before our wedding was unseasonably cold, with more snow than I’ve seen in Seattle in a long time.  Spokane, where we were in the days before our wedding, had a record-breaking 68 inches of snow that month.

“You’re sure January will be warmer, with no snow?” I queried of my soon-to-be husband.  Of course, I had not learned yet that wifely trick of taking every reassurance your spouse makes with a grain of salt.

I now personally use kosher salt; basic all-purpose and abundant with such statements.

Our wedding day dawned clear and cold, but saints be praised, NO SNOW.

Oh no, the snow was waiting for us for our honeymoon.

We had planned on a trip to Spain with a long lunchover in Paris.  Things looked promising as we left Seattle, as we headed off into the blue yonder without checking the weather reports across the Pond.

We landed in Paris, and still, no alarm bells were clanging in my head.  There was a layer of snow on the ground at the airport, but it didn’t seem to be worthy of airport shutdown status.  We hurried off to the center of the City of Lights, and took our dutiful tourist pictures at the Arc de Triomphe, slip sliding in a light layer of snow.

After our Parisian dejeuner, we returned to CDG, and STILL, pas d’alarme in my mind going off…..nope, nada, rien, pas de tout.  The airport looked crowded, but don’t airports always look crowded?

We checked our flight status, which was was listed as on time, and headed off to the gate.

And then we learned that our flight had been cancelled, due to snow.  SNOW……one tiny fluffy snowflake, and all of CDG was paralyzed. No one taking off, no one landing, all flights cancelled.

Now, you think it’s bad trying to get information during a massive cancellation in the US? Uh, try France.  No one forms a line.  You basically herd into a mass then collectively shove your way to the front and hope you can get the bad-tempered and very-reluctant-to-speak-English agent’s attention.

The crowd sways and pulses, depending on who’s pushing where, and who’s moved out of line.  It’s like watching a school of fish, which would be a sight to see, except when you are a mullet in that school of mullet and you have no volition of your own, but to follow the undulation of the crowd.

We finally eked our way to the front of the line, and then it got ugly.

My mild mannered husband and I patiently tried to find out what we were to do next, where were we to go. That’s when that little old biddy body-checked my husband. I thought Hubby was going to deck her.  And you know, there would have been a part of me cheering him along.

The ordeal continued on for several more hours before Air France finally told us that we were going to leave for Madrid the next day, and that we would be staying in Paris overnight, courtesy of them.    We were to take a bus to the hotel, from the lower level.

I think in France they like to confound visitors. There was no sign that we could see on any bus, no one standing around anywhere to ask, no clue no hint no treasure map no passing go, collect $200.  we wandered around for another hours, trying to find the damn bus, before we said “fook eet” and hailed a cab, FOR WHICH THERE IS ACTUALLY A LINE AND A VERY CLEAR SYSTEM IN FRANCE, go figure.

After an hour long cab ride, some mediocre hotel French food (seriously?? In the land of Escoffier, you serve me THIS crap???) and a short night, we made our way back on THE BUS, which we found parked out in front of the hotel in the dark hours of the dawn, and listened to the squabbling among passengers for seats and such.  My god, it’s not just American tourists who can be a-holes.

We finally got to Madrid in the early afternoon (never have I felt such elation as I did when the plane rumbled down the runway and lifted off away from snowy tundra of Paris, and this from a former flight attnedant) on The Epiphany.  Oh yes, more adventures await us.   One does not simply fly into the Epiphany without consequences.  We waited in Madrid at baggage claim for our luggage.  We waited.  We waited some more.  We waited still.  We waited with the patience of Job, all the while trying to avoid the hard truth that yes, yes, indeed, Air France had once again in my life lost my luggage.

More phone calls, more gesticulating, more fill in the blanks…..

And it’s The Epiphany in a very Catholic country, which means even at the main train station, all the shops are closed.  This would explain why I have in my possession a pair of black leggings with a butterfly embossed in sequins at the ankles and a t-shirt that says “TORO” on it; there was nothing else to buy.

There IS a happy ending to all this.  January 7 marks the start of the annual winter clearance sales.  Armed with our credit cards and not much else, Hubby and I braved the crowds to get some replacement clothes and supplies.

And this is when I learned I married a shopper.

The guy can pick out an outfit that looks good on him with a skill faster than he can body check a pushy old biddy (he would NOT do that, please note). He can spot a bargain, knows what will fit, has a better understanding of fashion than I ever will.  They say you learn things about one another in difficult times.  Okay, so I learned I married a shopper.

To end this long drawn-out tale, we finally did get our bags back, on Day Twelve of our fourteen day trip, but only after we told them to just send the bags back to Seattle.  An hour after we said that, miraculously our suitcases were delivered to our door.

Several morals to this story:  avoid Paris if there is even a whisper of snow in the forecast.  Do not be lulled into the promise of a mild Chinook month.  Air France sucks.  Wear body armor whilst jostling for position in CDG. Don’t fly into an Epiphany.

They say travel is a teacher, that it opens new worlds for you.  I say that’s all well and good, but still, pack a lunch, some extra clothes, and marry a shopper.