Let's address the literal (ahem) Elephant in the Living Room, shall we?
How does one survive owning an eating establishment when one's addiction of choice would be (ahem, uncomfortable shuffling of feet) ... um ... eating.
(We will pause a moment while those who know me mutter under their breath, "Yeah, I was wondering about that..." and my brothers moan to themselves, "Oh, not again...")
Truly, this wasn't an issue at first because most of what we serve is relatively healthy. Oh, we have our share of cream soups and cold cuts; but we keep our portions reasonable and temper the meat with plenty of vegetables.
Plus, I'm running around this cafe 15 hours a day five to seven days a week. And the first month, eating was the farthest thing from my (and anyone else's) mind. Between the stress and the physical activity, we all slimmed down. Of course, the guys -- who were all making a point to at least swallow a sandwich once a day -- all dropped 20 to 25 pounds. Meanwhile, I -- the only female around here -- survived the entirety of February on coffee and gum; I think my earlobes may have gotten thinner.
I didn't miss food in February and I made the mistake of telling myself I'd found the secret to weight loss: surround yourself with so much food, you don't even want to smell it. Even the sweets we carry -- mostly baked goods -- weren't a problem since I bake them myself and am rarely tempted by my own cooking.
Yup, I said. I got this licked. I thought of writing a book about the irony of overcoming the urge to eat by immersing yourself in the very thing to which you are addicted.
And...and...AND...I dropped a jeans size in March. No sweat. Just exhaustion and stress.
Oh. Yeah. I was tough to live with, what with all the smugness swirling about me. Here I was, surrounded by cheese, for cryin' out loud, and I was losing weight. Oh. Yeah. I had this thing beat.
We all know where this is going, don't we?
One day I'm back at my little hot plate, waiting the requisite 45 minutes it takes to heat up a pot of soup, when the doors burst open and a bunch of burly Teamsters deposited a freezer in the middle of our little cafe.
An
ice
cream
freezer.
I believe the Biblical phrase goes: Pride goeth before the cookies and cream.
...or something like that.
So.
Back to the original premise of this post: How one survives owning an eating establishment when one's addiction of choice is eating.
You start by not allowing the One In Charge of the Ice Cream to order coffee ice cream. I apologize to any of my customer whose favorite is also coffee. Unfortunately, a shot of espresso poured over vanilla is just as good, if not better, than coffee ice cream and, if there is one thing we have in abundance around here, it's espresso.
In all fairness, I've been pretty good -- I only succumbed twice in the past three weeks. But I know it's just a matter of time. Food speaks to me. Loudly. (This must be why I sleep so well -- there is absolutely no food at home.)
Ice cream screams -- it's why we carry it. Come to think of it, I have my business to consider. How can I ask my customers to eat something I won't eat myself? I'd be a hypocrite, right?
Right?
Besides, I can quit eating ice cream any time I want.
Really.
Thursday, April 05, 2012
Sunday, April 01, 2012
Pseudo-Kitchen Nightmare
I have Gordon Ramsey and Robert Irvine screaming in my head on a regular basis.
Admittedly, I've become a restaurant show junkie. Not only is it educational in running a cafe, but it makes me feel better knowing there are people screwing up worse than I am. I have to say, though, as much as we all tease DG about his obsession with cleanliness, we will never, ever, have anything approaching the filthy kitchens exhibited on either of those shows; nor do we have the level of familial dysfunction (this truly surprises all of us...we thought we'd surely be ready to kill each other by now. But -- give it time...).
That being said, considering what passes as our "kitchen" would put us more in the realm of Robert Irvine's other Food Network show than his current "Restaurant Impossible."
If you recall, his original show had him attempting to prepare meals for large crowds under ridiculous circumstances. That's kind of how it is around here.
We call it Lunch Impossible.
We've got two burners (something like the "hot plate" our moms shipped us all off to college with), a panini grill and a soup warmer (affectionately known as our Soup Nazi) - all this in less room than most walk-in closets. Oh -- and did I mention a three-compartment sink and sandwich station is in there also? Yeah.
Oh.
And it's all on display for the public. No separate kitchen here.
Keeps us honest.
And tidy.
And it amuses our customers. Our family dynamics are apparently entertaining. Kind of like watching a Woody Allen movie -- only with Italians.
The bad part of this kitchen set up is that we have to be very careful about vapors -- there is no venting in this building. So we are limited as to the type of food we serve -- frying, browning and sauteing have to be kept at a minimum so the filtered hood we installed can handle it.
Now that we are moved into our house, I can at least do some stuff there and bring it in. But that doesn't mean we will be serving french fries anytime soon. Or ever -- no matter how many times that one guy comes in, peruses our menu for about ten minutes and then orders french fries, in spite of having been told that we don't have french fries and being told the story of not being able to control vapors with our tiny little filtered hood. He looks back at us as though we are purposely not having french fries just to tick him off.
It's very tempting to fall back on prepared foods that can simply be reheated or microwaved, especially at 6 in the morning, when you worked until 9:30 the night before and you've got 15 hours of work ahead of you and the thought occurs to you that you that instead of spending the next few hours chopping, sauteing and seasoning while simultaneously grilling and cooking, you could just open a carton and heat up whatever soup is available and claim it as your own.
But that's not what we're about and we didn't open a cafe because we liked to heat stuff up. We got into it because we like food, we like to cook food and we like to share food. It took me a long time to reconcile the use of pre-prepared stock for the soups; but we just don't have the equipment to make our own in the volume we need. But I've come to accept this with the promise of a commercial stove in my future (this promise made by DG, though I'm not sure how he's going to make good on this promise...).
Still, anytime I am forced to use a prepared item instead of making my own, I feel a little guilty; like I'm deceiving my customers.
For instance, when we bought this business we were advised that one of the most popular foods on the menu had been a chicken salad available through a wholesale food supplier. And so that is the chicken salad we currently use. And, honestly, it's not horrible. Not to my taste -- pickle relish for pete's sake...pickle relish (why does every salad have to reek of pickle relish?). But people buy it and don't complain. I am told it's good.
But I have to admit I die a little inside every time I scoop some out. I know we're better than this and in my head I hear Gordon Ramsey screaming profanity about us serving "pre-made #$%&" and poking at it on a plate he ordered off our menu instead of ordering, say, one of my soups or DG's chili. I think I could take criticism of my cooking more than I would like being accused of being lazy.
Or, as I'm doing my daily opening of the chicken stock containers, I can see Robert Irvine staring incredulously as I pour it into the soup pot, finally losing his temper and yelling at me, "In an area where everyone raises chickens, you're using a canned stock? You call that cooking?"
Forget Gordan Ramsay Robert Irvine; I can see my grandmother and mother rolling their eyes in disgust.
I think my grandmother could have beaten the crap out of Gordon Ramsay.
Admittedly, I've become a restaurant show junkie. Not only is it educational in running a cafe, but it makes me feel better knowing there are people screwing up worse than I am. I have to say, though, as much as we all tease DG about his obsession with cleanliness, we will never, ever, have anything approaching the filthy kitchens exhibited on either of those shows; nor do we have the level of familial dysfunction (this truly surprises all of us...we thought we'd surely be ready to kill each other by now. But -- give it time...).
That being said, considering what passes as our "kitchen" would put us more in the realm of Robert Irvine's other Food Network show than his current "Restaurant Impossible."
If you recall, his original show had him attempting to prepare meals for large crowds under ridiculous circumstances. That's kind of how it is around here.
We call it Lunch Impossible.
We've got two burners (something like the "hot plate" our moms shipped us all off to college with), a panini grill and a soup warmer (affectionately known as our Soup Nazi) - all this in less room than most walk-in closets. Oh -- and did I mention a three-compartment sink and sandwich station is in there also? Yeah.
Oh.
And it's all on display for the public. No separate kitchen here.
Keeps us honest.
And tidy.
And it amuses our customers. Our family dynamics are apparently entertaining. Kind of like watching a Woody Allen movie -- only with Italians.
The bad part of this kitchen set up is that we have to be very careful about vapors -- there is no venting in this building. So we are limited as to the type of food we serve -- frying, browning and sauteing have to be kept at a minimum so the filtered hood we installed can handle it.
Now that we are moved into our house, I can at least do some stuff there and bring it in. But that doesn't mean we will be serving french fries anytime soon. Or ever -- no matter how many times that one guy comes in, peruses our menu for about ten minutes and then orders french fries, in spite of having been told that we don't have french fries and being told the story of not being able to control vapors with our tiny little filtered hood. He looks back at us as though we are purposely not having french fries just to tick him off.
It's very tempting to fall back on prepared foods that can simply be reheated or microwaved, especially at 6 in the morning, when you worked until 9:30 the night before and you've got 15 hours of work ahead of you and the thought occurs to you that you that instead of spending the next few hours chopping, sauteing and seasoning while simultaneously grilling and cooking, you could just open a carton and heat up whatever soup is available and claim it as your own.
But that's not what we're about and we didn't open a cafe because we liked to heat stuff up. We got into it because we like food, we like to cook food and we like to share food. It took me a long time to reconcile the use of pre-prepared stock for the soups; but we just don't have the equipment to make our own in the volume we need. But I've come to accept this with the promise of a commercial stove in my future (this promise made by DG, though I'm not sure how he's going to make good on this promise...).
Still, anytime I am forced to use a prepared item instead of making my own, I feel a little guilty; like I'm deceiving my customers.
For instance, when we bought this business we were advised that one of the most popular foods on the menu had been a chicken salad available through a wholesale food supplier. And so that is the chicken salad we currently use. And, honestly, it's not horrible. Not to my taste -- pickle relish for pete's sake...pickle relish (why does every salad have to reek of pickle relish?). But people buy it and don't complain. I am told it's good.
But I have to admit I die a little inside every time I scoop some out. I know we're better than this and in my head I hear Gordon Ramsey screaming profanity about us serving "pre-made #$%&" and poking at it on a plate he ordered off our menu instead of ordering, say, one of my soups or DG's chili. I think I could take criticism of my cooking more than I would like being accused of being lazy.
Or, as I'm doing my daily opening of the chicken stock containers, I can see Robert Irvine staring incredulously as I pour it into the soup pot, finally losing his temper and yelling at me, "In an area where everyone raises chickens, you're using a canned stock? You call that cooking?"
Forget Gordan Ramsay Robert Irvine; I can see my grandmother and mother rolling their eyes in disgust.
I think my grandmother could have beaten the crap out of Gordon Ramsay.
Wednesday, March 07, 2012
Taming the Beast
Everyone has that one thing that must be overcome in their life; something they have tried to do that has consistently defeated them, though they have made repeated efforts. My Waterloo; my Big Horn; my He That Shall Not Be Named has been the espresso machine and all the little limbs and gadgets attached that make it sputter and steam, even when no one is touching it.
As far as running the cafe goes, I've learned to make all kinds of soups with our "rustic" setup. I've mastered the panini grill. The cash register was never a problem and I do all the books.
But that beastly espresso machine has defied my attempts to tame it. It spits at me and gurgles angrily in the corner of the counter, like it's murmuring expletives under its breath. I just know it's watching me, like an angry dog crouched in the corner, waiting to bite me if I get too close.
There is just no way to not anthropomorphize the espresso machine. It's like this sour, embittered employee that was part of our deal to buy the business.
But it makes nice lattes...
...for other people.
It plays nicely with Dirtman and also with the twins. It even tolerates DG.
Finally, this morning I found myself alone in the cafe and there were no customers. I figured it was time me and the espresso machine had a conversation. It was just sitting there, looking almost benign for once; so I approached it, summoned my courage and dared to request of it a cafe mocha.
I must admit, I'd been researching how to establish a more amicable relationship with an expresso machine, so I wasn't approaching it without a plan. And I've noticed that everyone else seems to approach the thing without all the tension I seem to exude when I get within a few feet of it. So I calmly walked up to it -- almost meandered...like I hadn't meant to get near it at all.
Just a mocha, I said, as I've heard others fluent in coffee shop-ese: "A small skinny mocha latte with an extra shot." I said it out loud, with authority, like I knew what I was talking about.
And it acquiesced. Skim milk, steamed, just a little foam -- and no milk sputtering all over the counter. A nice flow of espresso and then the grounds coming out with a nice little "puck," telling me I used the exact amount of pressure.
It was the perfect cafe mocha, believe me. It was all a cafe mocha should be.
I just wish I like cafe mochas.
Now we need to resolve DG's relationship with the blender*.
*The blender has it out for DG -- but that's understandable because he tried to make it work harder than it wanted and things just blew up after that.
As far as running the cafe goes, I've learned to make all kinds of soups with our "rustic" setup. I've mastered the panini grill. The cash register was never a problem and I do all the books.
But that beastly espresso machine has defied my attempts to tame it. It spits at me and gurgles angrily in the corner of the counter, like it's murmuring expletives under its breath. I just know it's watching me, like an angry dog crouched in the corner, waiting to bite me if I get too close.
There is just no way to not anthropomorphize the espresso machine. It's like this sour, embittered employee that was part of our deal to buy the business.
But it makes nice lattes...
...for other people.
It plays nicely with Dirtman and also with the twins. It even tolerates DG.
Finally, this morning I found myself alone in the cafe and there were no customers. I figured it was time me and the espresso machine had a conversation. It was just sitting there, looking almost benign for once; so I approached it, summoned my courage and dared to request of it a cafe mocha.
I must admit, I'd been researching how to establish a more amicable relationship with an expresso machine, so I wasn't approaching it without a plan. And I've noticed that everyone else seems to approach the thing without all the tension I seem to exude when I get within a few feet of it. So I calmly walked up to it -- almost meandered...like I hadn't meant to get near it at all.
Just a mocha, I said, as I've heard others fluent in coffee shop-ese: "A small skinny mocha latte with an extra shot." I said it out loud, with authority, like I knew what I was talking about.
And it acquiesced. Skim milk, steamed, just a little foam -- and no milk sputtering all over the counter. A nice flow of espresso and then the grounds coming out with a nice little "puck," telling me I used the exact amount of pressure.
It was the perfect cafe mocha, believe me. It was all a cafe mocha should be.
I just wish I like cafe mochas.
Now we need to resolve DG's relationship with the blender*.
*The blender has it out for DG -- but that's understandable because he tried to make it work harder than it wanted and things just blew up after that.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
People in glass houses should dress in the basement
Let me tell you something really special about moving into a new house "gradually." Curtains -- rather, lack thereof.
The fact is there are two picture windows in this house and one of them is in my bedroom. The shower is in a whole different room from the bathroom and there are windows all around.
Now, you would think, after almost 25 years of marriage I would have acquired a set of curtains for a picture window or at least the various windows in the shower room. Failing that, you would think it would be no big deal to just purchase the curtain we need.
And this would truly not be a problem if I wasn't at the cafe all the time -- certainly during regular curtain-buying hours.
And please don't advise me to send Dirtman to buy the curtains. I sent him out to buy trash cans -- one for the kitchen and little ones for the bathrooms. Do you know what he came back with? Lipstick red trash cans. I have never, ever had decor that matched that color. He explained that they were on clearance at the dollar store. I have a deep-seated fear of things on clearance at the dollar store. Things on clearance at the dollar store are usually things like...like...LIPSTICK RED TRASH CANS.
So, as we speak, there are no curtains on my window and I dress in the closet. The shower, however, is a whole other story. There is just no escaping a window until you reach the safety of that bedroom closet. At 4:30 a.m. this is usually not a problem -- it's too early for anyone to be driving by; but, as I found out this morning, it's not too early for everyone. My run from the shower to the bedroom closet as I ran to beat the headlights that were flickering through the house resembled one of those old World War II movies where some hapless soldier has to draw fire from his buddies, ending by making a desperate dive into the safety of a foxhole, .
Dirtman had the nerve to think this was funny (having already earned my disdain for those hideous trashcans.)
I may have to break down and cover the windows with blankets -- sheets are at a premium around here. Remember those days when I would whip up curtains out of nothing with my trusty ol' Singer? I'm lucky to be awake long enough after work to sew on a button. Forget curtains...
Ironically, I've had the urge to watch the movie Groundhog Day (which, I point out, my nephew Lucas has never seen. I know. right?). DG insists that's what we're living.
But, then, tomorrow DG goes back to his regular job. And for me?
The fact is there are two picture windows in this house and one of them is in my bedroom. The shower is in a whole different room from the bathroom and there are windows all around.
Now, you would think, after almost 25 years of marriage I would have acquired a set of curtains for a picture window or at least the various windows in the shower room. Failing that, you would think it would be no big deal to just purchase the curtain we need.
And this would truly not be a problem if I wasn't at the cafe all the time -- certainly during regular curtain-buying hours.
And please don't advise me to send Dirtman to buy the curtains. I sent him out to buy trash cans -- one for the kitchen and little ones for the bathrooms. Do you know what he came back with? Lipstick red trash cans. I have never, ever had decor that matched that color. He explained that they were on clearance at the dollar store. I have a deep-seated fear of things on clearance at the dollar store. Things on clearance at the dollar store are usually things like...like...LIPSTICK RED TRASH CANS.
So, as we speak, there are no curtains on my window and I dress in the closet. The shower, however, is a whole other story. There is just no escaping a window until you reach the safety of that bedroom closet. At 4:30 a.m. this is usually not a problem -- it's too early for anyone to be driving by; but, as I found out this morning, it's not too early for everyone. My run from the shower to the bedroom closet as I ran to beat the headlights that were flickering through the house resembled one of those old World War II movies where some hapless soldier has to draw fire from his buddies, ending by making a desperate dive into the safety of a foxhole, .
Dirtman had the nerve to think this was funny (having already earned my disdain for those hideous trashcans.)
I may have to break down and cover the windows with blankets -- sheets are at a premium around here. Remember those days when I would whip up curtains out of nothing with my trusty ol' Singer? I'm lucky to be awake long enough after work to sew on a button. Forget curtains...
Ironically, I've had the urge to watch the movie Groundhog Day (which, I point out, my nephew Lucas has never seen. I know. right?). DG insists that's what we're living.
But, then, tomorrow DG goes back to his regular job. And for me?
"Babe.
I got you, Babe
I got you Babe..."
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Herding Cats
Isn't that the expression?
Yeah. That's it. Herding cats.
That's what opening your own cafe is like.
There are a million things to chase and only a handful of people to chase them. You find out very quickly that simply yelling, "someone wash soup spoons" does not mean someone will wash soup spoons and telling someone "don't let me forget to pick up toothpicks tomorrow" does absolutely no good when that someone has been subsisting on four hour's sleep per night for three weeks.
Our first week is little more than a blur with occasional flashes of terror or euphoria. Every now and then we'd look up, make eye contact with each other and have the expression of "we're really doing this!" on our faces.
To say this community of Romney, WV, has embraced our little venture is an understatement. They have been welcoming and supportive; but, most of all, they have been forgiving. There were times, especially on the first day, that we more resembled the Keystone Kops than a restaurant staff.
At first we were all specialized, requiring five people behind the counter serving a 20-seat restaurant. I'm sure most of the people who came, showed up for the floor show: frantic monkeys jumping around and bumping into each other, somehow managing to deliver food to them -- and sometimes it was even the right food...
The next week the hours were brutal as we tried to serve our customers and teach each other to do our jobs so we can eventually take some time off. We are determined to be open seven days a week.
The twins have shown themselves to be remarkably adaptable -- Lucas picked up on the grill immediately. Dirtman spent only one day teaching Trevor that beastly expresso machine along with all the concoctions it emits and he's yet to be stumped by a request.
As for the over-40 crowd...well, we seem to be a little more resistant to mastering new skills, but we soldier on. I finally tackled the panini grill and DG no longer leaves a pile of tickets to be entered into the cash register by someone else.
Some day I hope to manifest a pitcher of steamed milk without sputtering milk all over the place or burning my arms with boiling liquid. This is also DG's hope, since this only seems to happen when he's just cleaned and sanitized the entire expresso machine. There were words and I think it was a good thing there were customers around because, when he saw the mess, he could only stand there and puff, "Oh, fffff.....Oh, Jeanne....Oh, fffff...."
Never mind about the third degree burns on my arms, DG...
Which reminds me of the other thing that used to be so important, but has suddenly become minor: injuries.
The first day, when Lucas cut himself on a knife, we all jumped to his aid and carefully cleaned, disinfected and wrapped his wound. But, then, as we got busier and busier, we all took a turn slicing a finger or two and pretty soon we weren't reacting at all except to scream at the victim, "Get that thing wrapped and bus table 2!"
What has become important?
Sleep.
And my feet.
Well, sleep is important to all of us. We were all working 15-hour days, seven days a week. This weekend we finally gave Trevor and Lucas a chance to take over and DG, Dirtman and I left three hours early and arrived a few hours later the next morning. And, somehow, the world survived without us.
My feet are really only my concern -- and Dirtman's, who has to listen to me talk about them more than any human should have to hear about feet.
It's amazing how much these two minor things occupy my mind -- when I'm not dreaming of making soup.
Oh, did I mention that, during all this, we're also moving?
Right now I'm living in a house with a bed, no furniture and NO DOGS. Dirtman sometimes stays here or sometimes goes to the Virginia house to pack and close it up. He has promised to at least bring Zsa Zsa and Whiskers with him next trip -- now that I have all this free time on my hands.
So now you know why I haven't posted in a while. And, it occurs to me, I must be settling in because I'm sitting here in my own cafe, relaxed and happy, posting on my blog just like I have for the past six years.
I guess I'm home.
Yeah. That's it. Herding cats.
That's what opening your own cafe is like.
There are a million things to chase and only a handful of people to chase them. You find out very quickly that simply yelling, "someone wash soup spoons" does not mean someone will wash soup spoons and telling someone "don't let me forget to pick up toothpicks tomorrow" does absolutely no good when that someone has been subsisting on four hour's sleep per night for three weeks.
Our first week is little more than a blur with occasional flashes of terror or euphoria. Every now and then we'd look up, make eye contact with each other and have the expression of "we're really doing this!" on our faces.
To say this community of Romney, WV, has embraced our little venture is an understatement. They have been welcoming and supportive; but, most of all, they have been forgiving. There were times, especially on the first day, that we more resembled the Keystone Kops than a restaurant staff.
At first we were all specialized, requiring five people behind the counter serving a 20-seat restaurant. I'm sure most of the people who came, showed up for the floor show: frantic monkeys jumping around and bumping into each other, somehow managing to deliver food to them -- and sometimes it was even the right food...
The next week the hours were brutal as we tried to serve our customers and teach each other to do our jobs so we can eventually take some time off. We are determined to be open seven days a week.
The twins have shown themselves to be remarkably adaptable -- Lucas picked up on the grill immediately. Dirtman spent only one day teaching Trevor that beastly expresso machine along with all the concoctions it emits and he's yet to be stumped by a request.
As for the over-40 crowd...well, we seem to be a little more resistant to mastering new skills, but we soldier on. I finally tackled the panini grill and DG no longer leaves a pile of tickets to be entered into the cash register by someone else.
Some day I hope to manifest a pitcher of steamed milk without sputtering milk all over the place or burning my arms with boiling liquid. This is also DG's hope, since this only seems to happen when he's just cleaned and sanitized the entire expresso machine. There were words and I think it was a good thing there were customers around because, when he saw the mess, he could only stand there and puff, "Oh, fffff.....Oh, Jeanne....Oh, fffff...."
Never mind about the third degree burns on my arms, DG...
Which reminds me of the other thing that used to be so important, but has suddenly become minor: injuries.
The first day, when Lucas cut himself on a knife, we all jumped to his aid and carefully cleaned, disinfected and wrapped his wound. But, then, as we got busier and busier, we all took a turn slicing a finger or two and pretty soon we weren't reacting at all except to scream at the victim, "Get that thing wrapped and bus table 2!"
What has become important?
Sleep.
And my feet.
Well, sleep is important to all of us. We were all working 15-hour days, seven days a week. This weekend we finally gave Trevor and Lucas a chance to take over and DG, Dirtman and I left three hours early and arrived a few hours later the next morning. And, somehow, the world survived without us.
My feet are really only my concern -- and Dirtman's, who has to listen to me talk about them more than any human should have to hear about feet.
It's amazing how much these two minor things occupy my mind -- when I'm not dreaming of making soup.
Oh, did I mention that, during all this, we're also moving?
Right now I'm living in a house with a bed, no furniture and NO DOGS. Dirtman sometimes stays here or sometimes goes to the Virginia house to pack and close it up. He has promised to at least bring Zsa Zsa and Whiskers with him next trip -- now that I have all this free time on my hands.
So now you know why I haven't posted in a while. And, it occurs to me, I must be settling in because I'm sitting here in my own cafe, relaxed and happy, posting on my blog just like I have for the past six years.
I guess I'm home.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
A little baking humor...very little
If I'm given a drug test within the next 48 hours, I would test positive for heroin.
I'm streamlining a recipe for lemon poppy seed scones and have been taste-testing all day.
So I suppose I would not get whatever job I'd be drug-tested for because I was.....
...wait for it...
SCONED!!!!!!
BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
(I'm very tired.)
I'm streamlining a recipe for lemon poppy seed scones and have been taste-testing all day.
So I suppose I would not get whatever job I'd be drug-tested for because I was.....
...wait for it...
SCONED!!!!!!
BWAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!
(I'm very tired.)
Sunday, January 08, 2012
It ain't all dreamin' the dream...
We are in limbo while we wait for counters to be built and equipment to arrive. So while we wait, we perform the tasks that are the least amount of fun -- made obvious by the fact that there was very little lighthearted banter going on; just a roomful of bad-tempered people hunched over their own little projects suddenly emitting exclamatory profanity, like there was a sudden Tourette's epidemic.
My biggest accomplishment this weekend was teaching myself the ins and outs of our computerized cash register and obsessing over whether we should at any point offer biscuits and sausage gravy in the morning breakfast service. You'd be surprised how easily your mind can get stuck on biscuits and sausage gravy at 3 a.m. It made me realize how much of a problem I'm going to have putting items on the menu that I don't personally like myself. I guarantee, kale will never cross the threshold of the Courthouse Corner Cafe.
Dirtman tore down, cleaned and put back together the expresso machine and two coffee grinders. After several phone calls and flooding the front service area, he wrangled our first cup of expresso out of the machine. It was...um...special*.
DG was online ordering the last few big ticket items and watching the cafe's bank balance dwindle. He could be heard whimpering as he shook his head nervously. In the afternoon, we left him waving distractedly and muttering. By the time we got back home he'd turned a very strange corner and was sending me bizarre e-mails with bad puns on "barristers" and "baristas."
The Twin Prodigy (DG's sons) got the most visible work done -- they cleaned and fixed all the ceiling fans and lights both inside and out of the building.
And they tried to drink the expresso.
Now, if we could only settle on a font for our logo...**
*In all fairness, Dirtman didn't have real expresso beans to work with, nor could he find the tamper for the grounds. He just wanted to get the machine clean and working.
**We're all waiting on DG, for whom this seems to be a matter requiring a significant amount of meditation and consideration.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
Crazy Scary
I was ready for them this time: The naysayers, the predictors of doom and those who "just want to let you know we care" by listing every calamity that can possibly befall people who have the audacity to test Frost's road less traveled.
I wasn't quite as prepared for the level of terror I experienced when for the first time I decided not to listen.
I'm writing about this very personal feeling because I know I'm not alone in this. These dreams, these crazy, seemingly-unattainable dreams we have when we complete the sentence, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if..."; these dreams we can imagine so vividly, they make our pulse speed and keep us up at night...until that conservative voice of reason kicks in.
I think this is where most dreams die; before they're even uttered out loud or see the light of day.
Some, though, survive...weakened but still viable. And that's when the naysayers and predictors of doom deliver that final coup de grace.
As a people pleaser and dysfunctionally obsessive Good Girl, I've always done what I was told. There is safety in listening to what other claim to know more about (everything) than you, because you never have to hear, "I told you so." That way, though I've never gotten anywhere, I could stay the Good Girl everyone liked (predictability is always like, isn't it?).
And, let's face it, the naysayers have history and tradition going for them -- there is a reason everybody takes the path of safety -- most of the time it doesn't lead to calamity. (Though, I gotta say..."the path of safety" has been, for us, a minefield. So there is not much to recommend "doing what everyone does" to us.)
Which brings us to that weed-riddled, rocky path upon which we decided to embark -- opening a cafe during a recession. Or, insert your own seemingly wacky endeavor that seems to annoy everyone around you singing the praises of the status quo. For us it's a cafe.
This is another reason why, in the past, I've always done whatever is safest.
Terror.
There is no other way to put it.
Terror is very different from intuition. Intuition goes much deeper. Terror reacts to the cues in front of it. Terror drowns out intuition.
This is terrifying. It's terrifying to not do as expected. It's terrifying to do something that lacks the safety net of working for someone else in a field that is a sure thing. It's terrifying to be placing something that is so personally produced by me up for sale; up for others' judgement.
I think both Dark Garden and I counted on the fact that we were doing this together to waylay some of that fear. We appeared to each other so confident. I figured he was sure of himself, we must be okay. I seemed just as sure to him, so he figured the same.
... and then we had to commit. And we looked at each other and realized no matter what, we were going to have to muster a type of courage we had never tapped into before. Oh sure, it took courage to go through some of the challenges my family has over come in the past few years. And God knows, as a cop, courage is DG's stock-in-trade.
This is different, though. It's a different kind of fear and requires a different kind of courage. And I don't think there is any getting around it. You either let it stop you or you just let it flow while you do what you have to do.
And so yesterday we closed on the cafe. For myself, once it was a done deal, the terror subsided to a dull twinge and I was offered another option: Excitement. Oh, there is still that scared part of me that nudges every now and then, but I let the excitement drown it out.
I feel like the elderly Isak Dinesen reminiscing at the beginning of Out of Africa*: "I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills."
I have a cafe in Romney at the foot of the West Virginia Appalachian Mountains.
*Perhaps, more appropriately is this: "...the Earth was made round so that we would not see too far down the road."
 |
| The Cafe |
I'm writing about this very personal feeling because I know I'm not alone in this. These dreams, these crazy, seemingly-unattainable dreams we have when we complete the sentence, "Wouldn't it be wonderful if..."; these dreams we can imagine so vividly, they make our pulse speed and keep us up at night...until that conservative voice of reason kicks in.
I think this is where most dreams die; before they're even uttered out loud or see the light of day.
Some, though, survive...weakened but still viable. And that's when the naysayers and predictors of doom deliver that final coup de grace.
As a people pleaser and dysfunctionally obsessive Good Girl, I've always done what I was told. There is safety in listening to what other claim to know more about (everything) than you, because you never have to hear, "I told you so." That way, though I've never gotten anywhere, I could stay the Good Girl everyone liked (predictability is always like, isn't it?).
And, let's face it, the naysayers have history and tradition going for them -- there is a reason everybody takes the path of safety -- most of the time it doesn't lead to calamity. (Though, I gotta say..."the path of safety" has been, for us, a minefield. So there is not much to recommend "doing what everyone does" to us.)
Which brings us to that weed-riddled, rocky path upon which we decided to embark -- opening a cafe during a recession. Or, insert your own seemingly wacky endeavor that seems to annoy everyone around you singing the praises of the status quo. For us it's a cafe.
This is another reason why, in the past, I've always done whatever is safest.
Terror.
There is no other way to put it.
Terror is very different from intuition. Intuition goes much deeper. Terror reacts to the cues in front of it. Terror drowns out intuition.
This is terrifying. It's terrifying to not do as expected. It's terrifying to do something that lacks the safety net of working for someone else in a field that is a sure thing. It's terrifying to be placing something that is so personally produced by me up for sale; up for others' judgement.
I think both Dark Garden and I counted on the fact that we were doing this together to waylay some of that fear. We appeared to each other so confident. I figured he was sure of himself, we must be okay. I seemed just as sure to him, so he figured the same.
... and then we had to commit. And we looked at each other and realized no matter what, we were going to have to muster a type of courage we had never tapped into before. Oh sure, it took courage to go through some of the challenges my family has over come in the past few years. And God knows, as a cop, courage is DG's stock-in-trade.
This is different, though. It's a different kind of fear and requires a different kind of courage. And I don't think there is any getting around it. You either let it stop you or you just let it flow while you do what you have to do.
And so yesterday we closed on the cafe. For myself, once it was a done deal, the terror subsided to a dull twinge and I was offered another option: Excitement. Oh, there is still that scared part of me that nudges every now and then, but I let the excitement drown it out.
I feel like the elderly Isak Dinesen reminiscing at the beginning of Out of Africa*: "I had a farm in Africa at the foot of the Ngong Hills."
I have a cafe in Romney at the foot of the West Virginia Appalachian Mountains.
*Perhaps, more appropriately is this: "...the Earth was made round so that we would not see too far down the road."
Sunday, January 01, 2012
Dear 2012...
Dear 2012,Happy Birthday.
That's right. No exclamation point. I will acknowledge the day, but I haven't been able to muster the enthusiasm of an exclamation point for you or you siblings for a few years. I think my disenchantment with your family began back when your brother 2008 arrived, all cuddly and cute and pretending to be just another year until May*, when it suddenly turned into a psychopathic monster threatening to destroy our lives.
Ironically, when your sibling 2009 was born Dirtman and I still celebrated by clinking glasses, shrugging our shoulders and saying, "Well, at least it can't get any worse!"
What the hell were we thinking? Was there ever a phrase more guaranteed to bring down the wrath of God, the gods and any minor imps within hearing range?
Whatever the reason, I don't remember ever experiencing a year so defiant and stubborn, so unwilling to work well with its predecessors, so unwilling to work for the greater good. By the time December rolled around we were more than ready to kick 2009's annuated arse out the door.
Little did we know that we'd miss 2009's up front, in-your-face hijinks. We'd learned our lesson about trying to approach the new arrival of 2010 with unfettered optimism; but, secretly we hoped that 2010 would be more like her older siblings -- cooperative, understanding, sensitive to our weaknesses. In the beginning she was there everyday, pressed and dressed and ready to take on the world. But she really didn't do much for anybody, certainly not for us. In the end, she'd turned pretty nasty in a scary, stalker sort of way.
We were afraid to forcibly do anything about 2010, but were relieved when she up and left of her own accord to make way for her brother, 2011 -- the demon spawn. More wily and cunning than any of its siblings, 2011 baited us with a false sense of security. It pretended to be our friend. It showed us a glimpse of rosy future and assured us it's what fate had in store for us. We believed in 2011 and enthusiastically hopped aboard his optimism train.
You know those Road Runner cartoons where Wile E. Coyote is speeding along and Road Runner paints a tunnel on a rock dead end? That's where 2011 led us.
So here you are, 2012, expecting a big party and happy revelers. Well, I don't think so. We're a little tired of you and your tyrannical siblings showing up here every January 1 to knock us around like you're the boss of us. You can just let yourself in this year, park your butt in the corner and keep your mouth shut.
This time I'm in charge.
Sincerely,
Sisiggy
P.S. Since when do you show up at someone's home without a hostess gift?
*The incident of 2008 has been linked ad nauseum and I'm reluctant to make it my first link of the New Year. Besides, just about everyone knows the story, but for those who don't I will insert a very tiny one here. I hope it won't stir up any bad karma...
Thursday, December 29, 2011
My life with pasta
 |
| Homemade ravioli for Christmas dinner |
Frankly, though, I had to teach myself like anybody else.
I didn't grow up eating a whole lot of fresh pasta. Occasionally my grandmother would take a day and make homemade noodles to go with chicken soup. This was before pasta machines were available to just anybody. She'd roll out the dough herself, fold it up and cut it into thin strips. Then she'd lay a tablecloth out on my parents' queen-size bed, dust it with flour and shake each batch out to dry until dinner time.
Oh -- and she kept the bedroom door closed so the dog wouldn't get the noodles. I, however, had opposable thumbs (still do!). So I would try to sneak in and eat the raw noodles...oh, how I loved the raw noodles...more than the cooked ones. Of course, if I got caught I incurred the wrath of my grandmother, who was convinced I was going to get worms from eating raw dough. I've lived to tell the tale -- wormless.
I do recall, that as she got older, the noodles got thicker and thicker until they more like dumplings; good dumplings -- but still not the tender, toothsome strands they were supposed to be. And for the most part, when she made chicken noodle soup, the pasta of choice was acini de pepe out of a box.
I would occasionally make homemade pasta when the kids were growing up -- usually on days they weren't home and it was just Dirtman and me. It takes a long time to make, roll out and shape enough pasta for four people, particularly when they're used to filling their bowls to over flowing. My success in those days was erratic -- sometimes it flowed smoothly and was delicious; sometimes it was an exhausting nightmare of tight, unyielding dough with an ultimate mediocre texture; sometimes the whole thing wound up in the trash.I didn't begin to enjoy making pasta until the Christmas Dirtman bought me the pasta-making attachment for my blender (Dirtman will happily buy me all the kitchen equipment I want. Recently at K-Mart he tried to foist a fryer on me). I don't know why this is, because a pasta machine only does half the work of pasta-making -- the shaping. And the shaping is the easy part if you've put together a proper dough.
Having read up on the subject and following the directions of countless different methods, I'm convinced the only way to learn to make pasta is to just make pasta. I've worked with the step-by-step directions in front of my face -- directions written out carefully by someone whose handiwork I'd admired -- and had to, at some point, just let The Force take over. Whether it's because it really is in my DNA or whether it was because I just relaxed at this point and enjoyed the process, I've never had trouble since.
Today I'm making lasagna noodles (and the lasagna). Two batches should be more than enough -- I prefer making a lot of smaller batches than a single large batch. When I work with too much, the pasta is always tough; and, honestly, I just love the feel of that nice, smooth little lump of pasta dough sliding like silk on the board. (I wish there was a job where I could do nothing all day but knead dough -- bread dough, pasta dough, whatever; love to knead dough).
Monday, December 26, 2011
There's got to be a morning after
At around 8 p.m. Christmas Day, I start looking forward to December 26.
Please realize, I love hosting these big holiday get-togethers and, as strange as we all are, we're a fun bunch to be around. The current game of choice is called The Game of Things where you are given a category (say, "Things you might say during a lull in the conversation") and everyone's written answer is read out loud. You then have to guess who said which "thing." Needless to say, the Linguini version defies my attempts to keep the answers on high ground. Our gaming always lasts into the wee hours, this after an already hectic day. I truly love every minute of it.
But, whereas Christmas Day has required a month of logistical planning to produced a carefully-choreographed balance of feast, activity and sentimentality, the day after is a clean slate defying any attempts at scheduling or formality.
Only Dirtman had to drag himself out to work and I wasn't exactly pressed, dressed and faithfully waving goodbye to him from the front door. As I recall, having poured myself a second cup of coffee, I had sunk back into bed with TCM on low and only woke up briefly when he kissed me goodbye and assuaged my guilt by "ordering" me to stay in bed today and rest.
Well, if you insist...
Heating up my third cup of coffee made me the most active person remaining in the house, since the Heirs hadn't yet touched foot to floor. Later, while shoving a stale Christmas cookie into my mouth to go with the third cup of coffee, I noticed Heir 2, sleeping on the couch for the holidays, checking his e-mail from his lap top. He mumbled something I took to be "Good morning." I didn't bother to correct him on his assumption of the time of day and returned to bed, turning on the Food Network.
They had great recipes I have no intention of cooking today. Have another stale cookie.
Oh...and all that rich food that seemed such a good idea yesterday? Forget it. I just want a salad. There is a head of romaine lettuce and a bag of scallions in the crisper that I could cut up.
Instead I stand at the refrigerator, eat a cold leftover shrimp and take a spoonful of the leftover tiramasu that didn't set properly. I grab another stale cookie and go back to bed.
I am reminded by Zsa Zsa that I have dogs and that they require my opening the door for them to relieve themselves. Her nudge and stare make me feel guilty and I feel worse when I notice the water bowl is empty. Even Whiskers the cat is looking at me like I'm scum.
I let the dogs out, fill the water dish, and let them all back in.
It's nap time for the dogs. And me. I've worked hard.
There are stirrings in the kitchen. The Heirs have woken up hungry. I told them about the salad they could make, but they come in munching on the last of the cookies that were left out.
Heir 2 mentions setting up the Blu-Ray player John Boy brought us yesterday. Then he crawls back onto the couch. Heir 1 heads to his bedroom with leftover bacon-wrapped scallops and a glass of milk. He points out that the scallops were wrapped with water chestnuts and that the water chestnuts were the only vegetable we've had in two days. I reminded him that the tortilla chips had corn in them and the queso dip had tomatoes. I am a good mother.
Okay. Maybe I'll make up that salad for everyone.
Later.
After a nap.
Please realize, I love hosting these big holiday get-togethers and, as strange as we all are, we're a fun bunch to be around. The current game of choice is called The Game of Things where you are given a category (say, "Things you might say during a lull in the conversation") and everyone's written answer is read out loud. You then have to guess who said which "thing." Needless to say, the Linguini version defies my attempts to keep the answers on high ground. Our gaming always lasts into the wee hours, this after an already hectic day. I truly love every minute of it.But, whereas Christmas Day has required a month of logistical planning to produced a carefully-choreographed balance of feast, activity and sentimentality, the day after is a clean slate defying any attempts at scheduling or formality.
Only Dirtman had to drag himself out to work and I wasn't exactly pressed, dressed and faithfully waving goodbye to him from the front door. As I recall, having poured myself a second cup of coffee, I had sunk back into bed with TCM on low and only woke up briefly when he kissed me goodbye and assuaged my guilt by "ordering" me to stay in bed today and rest.
Well, if you insist...
Heating up my third cup of coffee made me the most active person remaining in the house, since the Heirs hadn't yet touched foot to floor. Later, while shoving a stale Christmas cookie into my mouth to go with the third cup of coffee, I noticed Heir 2, sleeping on the couch for the holidays, checking his e-mail from his lap top. He mumbled something I took to be "Good morning." I didn't bother to correct him on his assumption of the time of day and returned to bed, turning on the Food Network.They had great recipes I have no intention of cooking today. Have another stale cookie.
Oh...and all that rich food that seemed such a good idea yesterday? Forget it. I just want a salad. There is a head of romaine lettuce and a bag of scallions in the crisper that I could cut up.
Instead I stand at the refrigerator, eat a cold leftover shrimp and take a spoonful of the leftover tiramasu that didn't set properly. I grab another stale cookie and go back to bed.
I am reminded by Zsa Zsa that I have dogs and that they require my opening the door for them to relieve themselves. Her nudge and stare make me feel guilty and I feel worse when I notice the water bowl is empty. Even Whiskers the cat is looking at me like I'm scum.
I let the dogs out, fill the water dish, and let them all back in.
It's nap time for the dogs. And me. I've worked hard.
There are stirrings in the kitchen. The Heirs have woken up hungry. I told them about the salad they could make, but they come in munching on the last of the cookies that were left out.
Heir 2 mentions setting up the Blu-Ray player John Boy brought us yesterday. Then he crawls back onto the couch. Heir 1 heads to his bedroom with leftover bacon-wrapped scallops and a glass of milk. He points out that the scallops were wrapped with water chestnuts and that the water chestnuts were the only vegetable we've had in two days. I reminded him that the tortilla chips had corn in them and the queso dip had tomatoes. I am a good mother.
Okay. Maybe I'll make up that salad for everyone.
Later.
After a nap.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Priorities*
We have come to accept that, during the holiday season, we won't be able to get a whole lot done toward opening our cafe. Our excitement over this new venture is not shared by the various bureaucratic agencies through whose hoops we are required to jump.We're waiting for our FEIN; they're kvetching over their chintzy Secret Santa gift.
There is another dark cloud tempering our enthusiasm -- I need to find housing closer to the cafe. Rentals, even for the most pathetic hovel, are exorbitant and, even in a rural area and with dogs as wonderful as mine, it's hard to find someone to rent to a pet owner.
Still, we soldier on, which lead to the following e-mail exchange between me and Dark Garden, who you need to know is a captain in his county's sheriff's department and their head investigator.
Me: Come whenever on Christmas. I'm doing a ham and it'll just be an all-day buffet.
DG: Don't know about this weekend right now. Caught a murder this morning. Old, rickety cabin -- two-week old body was found (what follows is a stomach churning account of smells and fluids that DG can't help but go into detail about, but that I will spare you the detail of)...so this place is falling apart and we had to pull the body out and...(more details of limbs and corpse transportation). I'll let you know later today.
Me: So...........................................................................................................................................................
..............................................................there's a cabin available?
*I'll bet you thought this post was going to be a lot deeper.
There is another dark cloud tempering our enthusiasm -- I need to find housing closer to the cafe. Rentals, even for the most pathetic hovel, are exorbitant and, even in a rural area and with dogs as wonderful as mine, it's hard to find someone to rent to a pet owner.
 |
| This is not the cabin, only a facsimile of where I may be spending my off hours |
Me: Come whenever on Christmas. I'm doing a ham and it'll just be an all-day buffet.
DG: Don't know about this weekend right now. Caught a murder this morning. Old, rickety cabin -- two-week old body was found (what follows is a stomach churning account of smells and fluids that DG can't help but go into detail about, but that I will spare you the detail of)...so this place is falling apart and we had to pull the body out and...(more details of limbs and corpse transportation). I'll let you know later today.
Me: So...........................................................................................................................................................
..............................................................there's a cabin available?
*I'll bet you thought this post was going to be a lot deeper.
Friday, December 23, 2011
In keepin' with the situation...*
We have had some wild Christmases; we've had some quiet Christmases; we've had some weird Christmases; and we've had some really sucky Christmases.
I've decided to call this year's holiday our Deconstructed Christmas. 'Cause -- really -- I'll be good to get the bathroom cleaned.
It's all my own doing, I admit; which is why I can't really complain. And, while I indulged in a good couple of weeks of self-loathing, I realize that it's all part of the flow. Some years you're Martha Stewart; some years you're Ebenezer Scrooge; and some years you're Bartleby the Scrivner and "prefer not to."
So I've been Bartleby for the past few weeks and -- waddaya know! -- stuff got done (thanks to Charley and Emily). So I am not the Hub of the Yuletide Universe after all!
Still, there are no piles of tins containing Christmas cookies or no handmade ornaments. There is no wreath on the door since I never made it out to cut the greens and the swag on the mantlepiece is fake.
We'll have ham Christmas day because ham isn't so much cooking as "heating up." We're probably too many to sit at the table anyway -- and I have to admit that just about everyone prefers milling around and picking at stuff. I usually feel like I'm breaking up people having fun by making them file to the table and sit in their assigned seats.
Besides, I think the best times we've had have been when Dark Garden and I just start yanking things out of the fridge and cooking them (and making John Boy taste them first...and poor Dirtman stuck with the washing up). We have created some amazing dishes, only to look at each other and say, "Did you write any of that down? How did we do that?" Sometimes we'll actually remember -- depending on how many martinis fueled our creativity.
Then we send plates of our experiments out to the nephews, who are parked in front of the TV with whatever video game they bought each other. I never worry about spillage -- the dogs are on the job.
I think I've written myself from Bartleby to Martha after all. I amy conjure up some pies. Maybe I'll make up a batch of fresh pasta and do fried ravioli (lately, everything we cook has the added chore of being a test for our restaurant); perhaps some ubiquitous bacon-wrapped scallops...REAL EGG NOG!!!
See? I can manifest Christmas spirit...at least when it comes to food...
*Yes, another movie quote. The 1951 version of A Christmas Carol -- our favorite and most-quoted.
I've decided to call this year's holiday our Deconstructed Christmas. 'Cause -- really -- I'll be good to get the bathroom cleaned.
It's all my own doing, I admit; which is why I can't really complain. And, while I indulged in a good couple of weeks of self-loathing, I realize that it's all part of the flow. Some years you're Martha Stewart; some years you're Ebenezer Scrooge; and some years you're Bartleby the Scrivner and "prefer not to."
So I've been Bartleby for the past few weeks and -- waddaya know! -- stuff got done (thanks to Charley and Emily). So I am not the Hub of the Yuletide Universe after all!
Still, there are no piles of tins containing Christmas cookies or no handmade ornaments. There is no wreath on the door since I never made it out to cut the greens and the swag on the mantlepiece is fake.
We'll have ham Christmas day because ham isn't so much cooking as "heating up." We're probably too many to sit at the table anyway -- and I have to admit that just about everyone prefers milling around and picking at stuff. I usually feel like I'm breaking up people having fun by making them file to the table and sit in their assigned seats.
Besides, I think the best times we've had have been when Dark Garden and I just start yanking things out of the fridge and cooking them (and making John Boy taste them first...and poor Dirtman stuck with the washing up). We have created some amazing dishes, only to look at each other and say, "Did you write any of that down? How did we do that?" Sometimes we'll actually remember -- depending on how many martinis fueled our creativity.
Then we send plates of our experiments out to the nephews, who are parked in front of the TV with whatever video game they bought each other. I never worry about spillage -- the dogs are on the job.
I think I've written myself from Bartleby to Martha after all. I amy conjure up some pies. Maybe I'll make up a batch of fresh pasta and do fried ravioli (lately, everything we cook has the added chore of being a test for our restaurant); perhaps some ubiquitous bacon-wrapped scallops...REAL EGG NOG!!!
See? I can manifest Christmas spirit...at least when it comes to food...
*Yes, another movie quote. The 1951 version of A Christmas Carol -- our favorite and most-quoted.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Here we come on the run with a burger and a bun...*
The dynamics of my mother's relationship with her sisters and my grandmother are the stuff of which legends are told. Given the volatility of any interaction between the various players, it's amazing to me that she somehow convinced my father not once (a nursing home), but twice (a grocery store) to throw his lot in with this family whose members wore their issues with each other so prominently on their shirt sleeves and go into business with them.
Of course, conventional wisdom says, "Never go into business with family;" and certainly Ma and Pa are a testament to that. Both ventures left them financially depleted and one landed them in court.
Yet here we are, me and Da Bros, entering into a business together -- something we've talked about doing for years. I could enumerate the differences between my parents' misguided ventures and this one, but I think the most significant is our history of going to the mat for each other. While we have a lot of happy memories of our childhood, we went through some pretty scary stuff that forced us to rely on each other.
 |
| A very old photo of the cousins |
The Courthouse Corner Cafe will probably open Feb. 1, 2012, in Romney, WV, and will feature, along with the ubiquitous specialty coffees, homemade soups, baked goods, panini and sandwiches. This is a family venture, so along with Dark Garden, John Boy and me, Dirtman will also be involved as well as the Heirs and the Twinz and, we hope, guest appearances by John Boy's son, Jason.
For the most part, it will be me and DG, since one of our favorite things to do on weekends in get together and cook ... um ... stuff. Dirtman has subbed as a barista and Jason and Heir 2 have worked as baristas, though they're both employed elsewhere. Heir 1 worked at Panera Bread for a year; the Twinz -- Mickey D's.
Then there's John Boy, who DG insists will sit in the front of the cafe sipping wine and eating gruel. He might even tell about a little thing called the Pony Express...
 |
| Yeah. Right. We're happy to serve you. You gotta problem with that? |
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
The Scent of a Zombie
I'm trying very hard to love Walking Dead.
Each fall I try to find a television show to hang my hat on; another West Wing; another Northern Exposure. House was compelling for awhile until it turned into a soap opera that I thought would be relieved this season by the removal of House's love interest. Unfortunately, once Dr. House no longer had a dramatic private life, he turned into a sort of mean-spirited Yente and you get the feeling that he'd be diagnosing these diseases a lot sooner if he would just mind his own business.
But back to Walking Dead...
I know this is rather an odd choice for me, but my whole purpose in trying to find a television show I can embrace is so that I can join in with conversations and sound like I'm interacting with society on a regular basis. The truth is I don't, really. Mostly I just see my family and everyone in my family is watching Walking Dead.
This required me to spend an afternoon catching up by watching all of season one in one great big bite, thanks to Netflix. I'll admit I almost quit after the first episode when they let the zombies have the horse, but I soldiered on. And, believe me, it wasn't easy watching all those episodes together. Watching people being chased by zombies one hour at a time is one thing. Spending an entire afternoon watching people being chased by zombies gets pretty intense. (I admit, I de-toxed with a few early episodes of Upstairs Downstairs.)
I've caught up and this season I'm watching with everyone else. Perhaps the storyline in interesting...perhaps not. I can't tell you. I'm too busy worrying about when everyone is going to get their next shower.
This can't be just me. I know for a fact that Dark Garden has concerns about there being rampant body odor among the survivors and I, for one, am amazed that one of the women got pregnant at all, considering the lack of facilities at the campsite last season.
The thing is, this whole showering concern is really affecting how I react to key moments in the plot. For instance, when the survivors were in Atlanta, trying to escape a department store completely surrounded by zombies, I wasn't the least bit concerned for anyone's safety; I was just bummed that it meant no one would be showering any time soon. And then, when they draped themselves with dead person so that they smelled like a zombie so they could escape...and then got into a closed vehicle with each other and drove off...and then embraced their loved ones when they got to the campground...I could only curl up in a fetal position and try to keep my lunch down.
Heir 2 assures me that the writers just figure we assume they're maintaining good grooming habits, but I have my doubts. Otherwise, they wouldn't make such a big deal about when they do actually shower. Sheriff's office: big shower scene; CDC: big shower scene; Herschel's farm: big shower scene.
These people are exerting themselves much too often not to have frequent shower opportunities.
What's worse is that whenever they come to a place where they assured of regular bathing, they are always forced to leave. Even the guy who owns the farm where the group has finally found sanctuary (and plumbing) wants them to move on, though, frankly, I haven't seen any lines to use the shower facilities at Herschel's farm -- just a well they pulled a zombie out of and, well, that just won't do.
I don't think it's too much to ask -- just so I can enjoy the rest of the series -- for a swimming hole...a lake...something.
Oh...and a dog. A dog would be nice, as long as I have assurance the dog will not be killed off.
Each fall I try to find a television show to hang my hat on; another West Wing; another Northern Exposure. House was compelling for awhile until it turned into a soap opera that I thought would be relieved this season by the removal of House's love interest. Unfortunately, once Dr. House no longer had a dramatic private life, he turned into a sort of mean-spirited Yente and you get the feeling that he'd be diagnosing these diseases a lot sooner if he would just mind his own business.
But back to Walking Dead...
I know this is rather an odd choice for me, but my whole purpose in trying to find a television show I can embrace is so that I can join in with conversations and sound like I'm interacting with society on a regular basis. The truth is I don't, really. Mostly I just see my family and everyone in my family is watching Walking Dead.
This required me to spend an afternoon catching up by watching all of season one in one great big bite, thanks to Netflix. I'll admit I almost quit after the first episode when they let the zombies have the horse, but I soldiered on. And, believe me, it wasn't easy watching all those episodes together. Watching people being chased by zombies one hour at a time is one thing. Spending an entire afternoon watching people being chased by zombies gets pretty intense. (I admit, I de-toxed with a few early episodes of Upstairs Downstairs.)
I've caught up and this season I'm watching with everyone else. Perhaps the storyline in interesting...perhaps not. I can't tell you. I'm too busy worrying about when everyone is going to get their next shower.
This can't be just me. I know for a fact that Dark Garden has concerns about there being rampant body odor among the survivors and I, for one, am amazed that one of the women got pregnant at all, considering the lack of facilities at the campsite last season.
The thing is, this whole showering concern is really affecting how I react to key moments in the plot. For instance, when the survivors were in Atlanta, trying to escape a department store completely surrounded by zombies, I wasn't the least bit concerned for anyone's safety; I was just bummed that it meant no one would be showering any time soon. And then, when they draped themselves with dead person so that they smelled like a zombie so they could escape...and then got into a closed vehicle with each other and drove off...and then embraced their loved ones when they got to the campground...I could only curl up in a fetal position and try to keep my lunch down.
Heir 2 assures me that the writers just figure we assume they're maintaining good grooming habits, but I have my doubts. Otherwise, they wouldn't make such a big deal about when they do actually shower. Sheriff's office: big shower scene; CDC: big shower scene; Herschel's farm: big shower scene.
These people are exerting themselves much too often not to have frequent shower opportunities.
What's worse is that whenever they come to a place where they assured of regular bathing, they are always forced to leave. Even the guy who owns the farm where the group has finally found sanctuary (and plumbing) wants them to move on, though, frankly, I haven't seen any lines to use the shower facilities at Herschel's farm -- just a well they pulled a zombie out of and, well, that just won't do.
I don't think it's too much to ask -- just so I can enjoy the rest of the series -- for a swimming hole...a lake...something.
Oh...and a dog. A dog would be nice, as long as I have assurance the dog will not be killed off.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Jonesing for a bargainor
Sisiggy's Annual Commercialism Rant
Is it me or are this year's holiday commercials just a little too frenetic?
I've accepted the whole "commercialism" aspect of Christmas. I don't like it, but I accept that it is now so integral a part of our economy that, if it were abolished, something equally or more distasteful would have to take its place, like baby factories or Soylent Green.
I also accept that, as the economy slides further and further, the holiday season takes on more and more significance to businesses trying to make up for a dismal year.
But does every commercial have to sound like everyone involved is on crack? Does every single symbol of the holiday have to appear in every single commercial (except, of course, the actual purpose of Christmas -- don't want to lose those valuable pluralistic dollars)? AND STOP SCREAMING AT ME!
The problem, as is the problem with most acts of desperation, is that rather than making me want to do something, they just strike me as sort of, well...sad. I feel like I'm witnessing an entire society having a nervous breakdown.
It saddened me that so many retailers opted to open at midnight on Black Friday, requiring their employees to leave their families on Thanksgiving Day. I'd hoped that people would just stay home and show that this was an idea that took one step too far.
Sadly, it worked. It wasn't enough to ruin Christmas -- now even Thanksgiving is tainted.
The thing that strikes me most is that every year there is more and more of a disparity between what I'm being sold -- not only the products, but the whole idea of Christmas frenzy in decorating, gift-giving and activity -- and what I truly want to get out of the holiday season. And I don't think I'm unique in my thinking.
Somehow, with millions of good people out of work (like us!), a reindeer sweater-clad blonde skipping maniacally down the aisle grabbing random stuff from displays without looking at what she's buying, not thinking twice about pilfering from someone else's shopping cart*, seems downright obscene.
And before you hop on me about how all this "commercialism" is going to pull us out of an economic slump and suddenly put everyone back to work, I'll have to beg your pardon. After they've squeezed every last dollar out of us over the holiday season, Walmart will lay off all those extras employees and offer their same crappy service; the extra money will not be used to bring out-sourced jobs back to the United States; it will not provide workers with the proper benefits so they no longer have to rely on social services.
By this time we should all know what it will do: more money for retailers only means a handful of executives will get a bigger bonus.
Which, I suppose, puts into perspective the commercial featuring a Lexus in the driveway with a bow on it.
*This aspect of the commercial I'm speaking of -- I think it was Kohl's -- seems to bother a lot of people. Me? Not so much. I figure it's expected behavior given the entire motif of the ad.
I've accepted the whole "commercialism" aspect of Christmas. I don't like it, but I accept that it is now so integral a part of our economy that, if it were abolished, something equally or more distasteful would have to take its place, like baby factories or Soylent Green.
I also accept that, as the economy slides further and further, the holiday season takes on more and more significance to businesses trying to make up for a dismal year.
But does every commercial have to sound like everyone involved is on crack? Does every single symbol of the holiday have to appear in every single commercial (except, of course, the actual purpose of Christmas -- don't want to lose those valuable pluralistic dollars)? AND STOP SCREAMING AT ME!
The problem, as is the problem with most acts of desperation, is that rather than making me want to do something, they just strike me as sort of, well...sad. I feel like I'm witnessing an entire society having a nervous breakdown.
It saddened me that so many retailers opted to open at midnight on Black Friday, requiring their employees to leave their families on Thanksgiving Day. I'd hoped that people would just stay home and show that this was an idea that took one step too far.
Sadly, it worked. It wasn't enough to ruin Christmas -- now even Thanksgiving is tainted.
The thing that strikes me most is that every year there is more and more of a disparity between what I'm being sold -- not only the products, but the whole idea of Christmas frenzy in decorating, gift-giving and activity -- and what I truly want to get out of the holiday season. And I don't think I'm unique in my thinking.
Somehow, with millions of good people out of work (like us!), a reindeer sweater-clad blonde skipping maniacally down the aisle grabbing random stuff from displays without looking at what she's buying, not thinking twice about pilfering from someone else's shopping cart*, seems downright obscene.
And before you hop on me about how all this "commercialism" is going to pull us out of an economic slump and suddenly put everyone back to work, I'll have to beg your pardon. After they've squeezed every last dollar out of us over the holiday season, Walmart will lay off all those extras employees and offer their same crappy service; the extra money will not be used to bring out-sourced jobs back to the United States; it will not provide workers with the proper benefits so they no longer have to rely on social services.
By this time we should all know what it will do: more money for retailers only means a handful of executives will get a bigger bonus.
Which, I suppose, puts into perspective the commercial featuring a Lexus in the driveway with a bow on it.
*This aspect of the commercial I'm speaking of -- I think it was Kohl's -- seems to bother a lot of people. Me? Not so much. I figure it's expected behavior given the entire motif of the ad.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Me, Zsa Zsa and Pandora
I've taken to having conversations with Pandora.
For the most part, when I'm at work, I'm alone. My work during this time of year is quite repetitious and basic, requiring very little concentration. So I listen to Pandora all day long.
So there we are: Me. And Pandora. (...and Zsa Zsa, who is depressed because there aren't that many volunteers this time of year. She is used to crowds of people fawning over her.)
I really do admire the genome aspect of Pandora, but I suspect I'm expecting it to pick up on things that may be too nuanced for it to understand.
Like when I "thumbs-down" something, it seems to go over-board in trying to appease me. If I'm on my New Age station, it will always follow a "thumbs down" with Enya. If I'm on my "Cheesy Geezer" station, it's Sinatra. The Folk station gets Dylan. The rock station -- John Lennon. The classical station -- Mozart. And the opera station -- always, always, always Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma -- a young Pavarotti's Nesssun Dorma.
And, honestly, I think sometimes Pandora is messing with me.
For instance, I have a variety of stations ranging from classical to rock. But every single station insisted on playing Israel Kamakawiwoʻole's "Over the Rainbow/What A Wonderful World" -- and, for awhile -- always at 3 p.m. I never requested it, but I did give it a thumbs up on one of my stations -- it's a campy, okay kind of song. But it seemed that it would play several times a day -- on any freakin' channel I was on.
I was forced to ban Israel Kamakawiwoʻole and I have guilt over that.
And why can't Pandora "get" that, just because I thumbs up Ray Charles, I don't want James Brown screaming in my ear?
And...and...Pandora? I like ONE SONG by Sarah McLachlan -- and I've thumbs-downed every single song since then. Do you GET that I don't want any more Sarah McLachlan?
And enough with John Tesh -- what makes you think I want to hear John Tesh? I don't care WHERE he is playing; I don't care WHAT he is playing. The fact that I have for two years thumbs-downed every John Tesh offering should let you know I FREAKIN' DON'T WANT TO HEAR JOHN TESH.
I know. I know, Pandora. As much as I listen to you, I should be a paying customer. But I work for a non-profit. I DON'T GET HOLIDAY PAY FOR CHRISTMAS AND YOU WANT ME TO PAY TO "THUMBS DOWN" JOHN TESH?????
ANSWER ME!!!!!!
For the most part, when I'm at work, I'm alone. My work during this time of year is quite repetitious and basic, requiring very little concentration. So I listen to Pandora all day long.
So there we are: Me. And Pandora. (...and Zsa Zsa, who is depressed because there aren't that many volunteers this time of year. She is used to crowds of people fawning over her.)
I really do admire the genome aspect of Pandora, but I suspect I'm expecting it to pick up on things that may be too nuanced for it to understand.
Like when I "thumbs-down" something, it seems to go over-board in trying to appease me. If I'm on my New Age station, it will always follow a "thumbs down" with Enya. If I'm on my "Cheesy Geezer" station, it's Sinatra. The Folk station gets Dylan. The rock station -- John Lennon. The classical station -- Mozart. And the opera station -- always, always, always Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma -- a young Pavarotti's Nesssun Dorma.
And, honestly, I think sometimes Pandora is messing with me.
For instance, I have a variety of stations ranging from classical to rock. But every single station insisted on playing Israel Kamakawiwoʻole's "Over the Rainbow/What A Wonderful World" -- and, for awhile -- always at 3 p.m. I never requested it, but I did give it a thumbs up on one of my stations -- it's a campy, okay kind of song. But it seemed that it would play several times a day -- on any freakin' channel I was on.
I was forced to ban Israel Kamakawiwoʻole and I have guilt over that.
And why can't Pandora "get" that, just because I thumbs up Ray Charles, I don't want James Brown screaming in my ear?
And...and...Pandora? I like ONE SONG by Sarah McLachlan -- and I've thumbs-downed every single song since then. Do you GET that I don't want any more Sarah McLachlan?
And enough with John Tesh -- what makes you think I want to hear John Tesh? I don't care WHERE he is playing; I don't care WHAT he is playing. The fact that I have for two years thumbs-downed every John Tesh offering should let you know I FREAKIN' DON'T WANT TO HEAR JOHN TESH.
I know. I know, Pandora. As much as I listen to you, I should be a paying customer. But I work for a non-profit. I DON'T GET HOLIDAY PAY FOR CHRISTMAS AND YOU WANT ME TO PAY TO "THUMBS DOWN" JOHN TESH?????
ANSWER ME!!!!!!
Monday, November 14, 2011
Think positive...NOW!
It's a phrase that absolutely sets my teeth on edge, almost as much as when someone orders me to, "Smile!"
"Think positive!" The only people who have ever said that to me have said it to either manipulate my actions for their benefit or stood to gain more than I would -- usually financially -- from my having "positive" attitude.
Aside from being rude and unfeeling, the phrase should be restated to mean it's true intent: "Think positively about what I want and to hell with your feelings."
Don't get me wrong -- I am a great proponent of positive thinking. I could not have gone through some of the challenges of my life -- and Linguini readers know they have been many and brutal -- if I hadn't consciously developed an immunity to all the negative energy swirling about me.
I can recognize when, as a family, we've entered "rut mode," where, after a setback, we begin feeding off each other's fears. But even then, it's not my place to order everyone to "be positive." And I'm well aware of the wisdom of the phrase, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." Certainly there have been times when I've had the power to set the tone for the household and knew I'd better pull myself together before someone does something drastic.
As a mother, I'll admit when the Heirs were younger there were times I had to remind them that most of what we worry about never happens and to take responsibility for their own, personal "rut modes." But to tell them how the "should" feel ("Think positive!") would have been a betrayal of the latitude given to me as a parent.
I recall an incident when my mother was dying of cancer. I was working in the comptroller's department of a bank at the time, living at home and trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. This was a time before "hospice" when terminal patients were either kept in hospitals or sent home for relatives to make do as best they could.
It was a horrible, horrible few months for Da Bros and I, not to mention my father, who had essentially shut down, leaving poor 15-year-old Dark Garden not only without a mother, but also without a father.
This wasn't a situation I shared with everyone at work. I didn't want to become "the lady with the dying mother." However, whereas I usually functioned as the office comic, not to mention the department diplomat who smoothed over office politics before it had to go to personnel, I was now more sedate and quiet and, frankly, clueless when day-to-day employee kerfuffles were escalating.
Most of my co-workers and management were satisfied with the explanation that I was "going through some stuff." After all, my work wasn't suffering. But one supervisor -- a woman who got her job mostly because she was married to the son of the bank's CFO and who had been cushioned since birth by money and plain, dumb luck -- just couldn't let it go. She called me into her office to tell me she couldn't help noticing my attitude and perhaps I needed to "leave my burnt toast at home."
And then, when I offered the "going through some stuff" explanation, she uttered the words that ring in my ears to this day: "You need to think positively! It will turn your life around and everything will change!"
Now, not only did I feel miserable because I was 22 and my life consisted of working, going to hospitals and tending to my sick mother and that, ultimately, my mother was going to die anyway, I also felt guilty that I felt BAD about it. Call it a Catholic girls guilt or whatever -- the fact is, that in the throes of my grief and pain, I was made to feel that somehow this was all my fault because I couldn't manage to FEED GOOD about it. And, truthfully, I felt that way for a long time.
I know now, 32 years later, that I was called into that office because I was no longer doing the supervisor's job of employee relations for her. I think of what a more enlightened Sisiggy would have said and even considered, for a time, returning there to deliver my scathing diatribe.
Alas, the bank no longer existed. A few years after I left to move to Virginia, the entire company was investigated by the fed, and most of upper management was found guilty of various forms of financial mayhem.
Still, I have this vision of visiting her in her reduced circumstances, patting her on the hand and advising her to "think positive!"
What reminded me of all this was I was shopping at a department store recently and ahead of me a very talkative woman was checking out, going on and on about why she'd purchased each item or why she chose one thing over another or why her son hated this, but loved that and blah, blah blah. The clerk, as it appeared to me, was focusing on the transaction and not responding to the inane chatter of the customer. This was bothering the customer no end and she kept looking toward me and rolling her eyes as though we should join forces against mute department store clerks.
As the clerk handed the customer the receipt and said the obligatory, "Thank you," Ms. Motormouth looks at her closely and says perkily, "You should smile!"
The clerk had this stricken, deer-in-the-headlights look on her face and I think she almost broke down and cried. These days, especially, you don't know people's story and what they're going through. What I saw in that clerk was a raw, depleted soul, white-knuckling it through her obligations with the last of her reserves being asked by a privileged, insensitive airhead to validate her skills as a savvy shopper.
Now, I'm don't normally jump into the fray on things like this. But that clerk looked so stricken and then looked at me as if to say, "Now, what are you going to hit me with?"
I looked at the Perky Pollyanna walking toward the exit, shook my head and said, "What an idiot!"
We both smiled. And breathed.
"Think positive!" The only people who have ever said that to me have said it to either manipulate my actions for their benefit or stood to gain more than I would -- usually financially -- from my having "positive" attitude.
Aside from being rude and unfeeling, the phrase should be restated to mean it's true intent: "Think positively about what I want and to hell with your feelings."
Don't get me wrong -- I am a great proponent of positive thinking. I could not have gone through some of the challenges of my life -- and Linguini readers know they have been many and brutal -- if I hadn't consciously developed an immunity to all the negative energy swirling about me.
I can recognize when, as a family, we've entered "rut mode," where, after a setback, we begin feeding off each other's fears. But even then, it's not my place to order everyone to "be positive." And I'm well aware of the wisdom of the phrase, "If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy." Certainly there have been times when I've had the power to set the tone for the household and knew I'd better pull myself together before someone does something drastic.
As a mother, I'll admit when the Heirs were younger there were times I had to remind them that most of what we worry about never happens and to take responsibility for their own, personal "rut modes." But to tell them how the "should" feel ("Think positive!") would have been a betrayal of the latitude given to me as a parent.
I recall an incident when my mother was dying of cancer. I was working in the comptroller's department of a bank at the time, living at home and trying to maintain some semblance of normalcy. This was a time before "hospice" when terminal patients were either kept in hospitals or sent home for relatives to make do as best they could.
It was a horrible, horrible few months for Da Bros and I, not to mention my father, who had essentially shut down, leaving poor 15-year-old Dark Garden not only without a mother, but also without a father.
This wasn't a situation I shared with everyone at work. I didn't want to become "the lady with the dying mother." However, whereas I usually functioned as the office comic, not to mention the department diplomat who smoothed over office politics before it had to go to personnel, I was now more sedate and quiet and, frankly, clueless when day-to-day employee kerfuffles were escalating.
Most of my co-workers and management were satisfied with the explanation that I was "going through some stuff." After all, my work wasn't suffering. But one supervisor -- a woman who got her job mostly because she was married to the son of the bank's CFO and who had been cushioned since birth by money and plain, dumb luck -- just couldn't let it go. She called me into her office to tell me she couldn't help noticing my attitude and perhaps I needed to "leave my burnt toast at home."
And then, when I offered the "going through some stuff" explanation, she uttered the words that ring in my ears to this day: "You need to think positively! It will turn your life around and everything will change!"
Now, not only did I feel miserable because I was 22 and my life consisted of working, going to hospitals and tending to my sick mother and that, ultimately, my mother was going to die anyway, I also felt guilty that I felt BAD about it. Call it a Catholic girls guilt or whatever -- the fact is, that in the throes of my grief and pain, I was made to feel that somehow this was all my fault because I couldn't manage to FEED GOOD about it. And, truthfully, I felt that way for a long time.
I know now, 32 years later, that I was called into that office because I was no longer doing the supervisor's job of employee relations for her. I think of what a more enlightened Sisiggy would have said and even considered, for a time, returning there to deliver my scathing diatribe.
Alas, the bank no longer existed. A few years after I left to move to Virginia, the entire company was investigated by the fed, and most of upper management was found guilty of various forms of financial mayhem.
Still, I have this vision of visiting her in her reduced circumstances, patting her on the hand and advising her to "think positive!"
What reminded me of all this was I was shopping at a department store recently and ahead of me a very talkative woman was checking out, going on and on about why she'd purchased each item or why she chose one thing over another or why her son hated this, but loved that and blah, blah blah. The clerk, as it appeared to me, was focusing on the transaction and not responding to the inane chatter of the customer. This was bothering the customer no end and she kept looking toward me and rolling her eyes as though we should join forces against mute department store clerks.
As the clerk handed the customer the receipt and said the obligatory, "Thank you," Ms. Motormouth looks at her closely and says perkily, "You should smile!"
The clerk had this stricken, deer-in-the-headlights look on her face and I think she almost broke down and cried. These days, especially, you don't know people's story and what they're going through. What I saw in that clerk was a raw, depleted soul, white-knuckling it through her obligations with the last of her reserves being asked by a privileged, insensitive airhead to validate her skills as a savvy shopper.
Now, I'm don't normally jump into the fray on things like this. But that clerk looked so stricken and then looked at me as if to say, "Now, what are you going to hit me with?"
I looked at the Perky Pollyanna walking toward the exit, shook my head and said, "What an idiot!"
We both smiled. And breathed.
Thursday, November 03, 2011
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Take a hike walk
I must admit to being a rather pathetic hiker -- which, frankly, is a doggone shame when you live in the Shenandoah Valley and it's fall.Back in the day, I could blame my hiking woes on an inexplicable acrophoia. I don't know why I have this and it totally baffles family and friends who don't have it. I know a lot of people equate the fear of heights with vertigo, but that's not exactly true. Vertigo makes you dizzy. For me, acrophobia feels like a vacuum pulling me to the edge.
John Boy has gamely tried on a few occasions to drag me up a mountain only to be disgusted by the sniveling puddle of goo I become when confronted by a rock outcropping.
I remember one ledge when we hiked up Rag Mountain. In retrospect, it really wasn't a ledge. It was quite wide and, while it was a straight drop down from the edge, the rock was plenty wide and the exposed edge only about few feet wide. A normal, thinking person -- even one uncomfortable with heights -- would focus on the path ahead and step over the rock ledge -- it was that small.
All I had to see was a peek at the valley beyond and I could feel the suction from the edge and knew I would be sucked out into the air it I even tried to set foot on that rock. And so I went into a total meltdown.
I don't remember how I got past the ledge -- I think John Boy had to literally drag me across while I closed my eyes. He was quite angry with me, especially because, now that my nerves were completely shot, I was whiny and cross for the rest of the hike. So John Boy solved this by getting well ahead of me (pretty easy to do) and allowing me to catch up while he rested.
Of course I deserved it and, having enjoyed what was, to him, a leisurely hike back down the mountain, he was maddeningly upbeat all the way back home from Virginia to New Jersey.
That being said, John Boy does have a reputation for overestimating the abilities of his hiking partners. The result of this is that he cannot often talk anyone into hiking with him unless a second opinion can be obtained as to the intensity of the trail.
You would think such experiences would turn me off hiking completely. But there were enough good memories for desire to stay with me, even though I'm not exactly hiking material. Granted, I still have not overcome my acrophobia; but there are plenty of trails in Shenandoah National Park where that is not a problem.
These days I have to admit that I just don't have the strength -- for whatever reason (had I health insurance I would find out). I tell myself it's age (though John Boy is four years older than me...).Fortunately, somewhere in the bureaucracy of the national park system are people who understand how I feel and they have made it possible for me to pretend I'm hiking. To John Boy, these would be "walks." The longest of them is a mile loop. There are very few inclines. Some of them are even paved. I come out of them in pain and totally exhausted, but I'm determined to keep it up until I can tackle something substantial
It's Dirtman, of course, who accompanies me on these excursion, even though they are probably equally lame to him as they are to everyone else. When we're done, though, he acts like I've conquered Everest or made it to the North Pole.
The pictures accompanying this post are of the Storybook Trail on the Massanutten Mountain here in the valley. I used to bring the kids up here back when we were homeschooling because there are stations along the trail that tell how the Shenandoah Valley was formed.
So, along with the gorgeous fall foliage, I can remember the echoes of my little boys running about on all the subtrails that loop back to the main, paved trail. Our dog, at that time, was our first Australian Shepherd Dundee, who worried himself over the fact that Heir 2 kept disappearing, reappearing and disappearing again.
Now it's Dirtman, Zsa Zsa and me (the Heirs think calling the Storybook Trail a "hike" is like calling computer solitaire a "video game") and that's fine too. We pack a lunch, take a walk and take the long way home over dirt roads.I sleep the best after an outing like this.
Can you tell The Leash is an insult to Zsa Zsa? Well it is. She would no more take off than she would sprout wings and fly. We frustrated her because Dirtman was always ahead of me and I was always limping behind -- she couldn't keep her herd together! Just another example of "My Dog Thinks I'm a Moron."
Note: My blogging manners are atrocious of late and for that I apologize. Of course, I have excuses for my silence, but I'm not going to go down that path right now until I can succinctly give it all perspective.
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