Open Mic Night...

...The Linguini on the Ceiling perspective:

Uh...Ladies?

Trying to take your picture...

 Excuse me, but could you just...

 

Oh, never mind.

I'll find someone more cooperative who will...

 

...oh, HELL no...

Someone...anyone...normal...

Well, that's just...sad...

Never mind.

Five random thoughts...

...because assembling a cohesive entry any longer than a paragraph is next to impossible when you work 12 hours a day, seven days a week.

1. Neil Armstrong died and it registered barely a blip on the media radar. The first human being on the moon received less attention than a self-absorbed narcissist whose only connection with that celestial body was that funny thing he did with his feet. This annoys me, probably more than it should.

2. My teenage employees cannot read my cursive writing; nor, they admit, anyone else's cursive writing. I have to print everything -- like I'm writing a ransom note.

3. I have this sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that what passes as "election coverage" has become merely an exercise in dissecting sound bytes. What an incredible waste of brainpower to have to ensure that any three or four words strung together cannot be isolated from the body of a speech and made to indicate the opposite of what the speaker intended. And what a waste of my time to have to listen to it.

4. I'm a bit alarmed at the sudden demonizing of poor people. Oh, there has always been some loud-mouthed bigot at every gathering spouting off about welfare mothers giving birth to get more benefits ("someone" that "someone" told "someone" who told them about), but this type of person was always considered...well...a jerk. There have always been enough intelligent, compassionate people around who knew that even if such a mythic creature like the unemployed slacker raking in the social service benefits existed, they certainly weren't getting wealthy from their efforts. Aside from the fact that applying and receiving government aid is a bureaucratic nightmare, it's humiliating, intrusive, time-consuming and not often worth the effort. Even more alarming is that in a country that is so wealthy, we have set the bar so low for what a human being should have to live without simply because we don't consider their simple existence reason enough to maintain their health and safety. What happened to all those intelligent, compassionate voices?

5. I make Reuben sandwiches in my sleep. I want to dream of other things and it always starts out that way. But, in the end, I'm making Reubens...or, worse, trying to make a Reuben, but never quite finishing it. The degree to which I complete the Reuben is directly connected to my level of stress the previous day. Reubens have become my metaphor for life.

While My Guitar (and I) Gently Weeps

I got my first guitar for my 12th birthday. It was a gift from my grandmother who, as I found out, "played" the instrument and would teach me all she knew. What she "knew" was the "D" chord and a modified "G" chord played with the thumb. With these two chords she could accompany my uncle's violin in an Italian song I don't know the name of, but you would recognize if it were played.

For the first few weeks as a guitarist, I made those two chords work for just about every song I wanted to sing; because, you see, my real talent -- if I have musical talent at all -- is singing. On a level, even then, I knew the guitar would only ever accompany my voice and never perform on its own.

After awhile, I acquired a chord chart and began with the standard folk repertoire -- Where Have All the Flowers Gone, Blowin' in the Wind, 500 Miles...all with vaguely similar chord progressions. It was an important musical breakthrough for me when I discovered minor and diminished chords.

I eventually convinced my mother to let me take real guitar lessons, which I did on and off through high school, never very intensely. I even took a year of classical guitar when I began making my own money. Even these went by the wayside when, upon seeing me struggle to cover with my stubby Hobbit hands some of the fret spreads required to play classical guitar, my teacher said sadly, "You're going to have to accept there are going to be some pieces you'll never be able to play properly."

Well, I never aspired to be a Segovia anyway.

I focused on my voice and, if I do say so myself, I was pretty good in my day. But it was always just a hobby (and justifiably so, truth be told) and eventually one I in which I only indulged to sing my babies to sleep or sooth them on long car rides. I did a brief stint as a children's choir director (where I met Joe's girlfriend Caisee and her mom Carole, who was my accompanist).

One day, though, my guitar (the second one since my grandmother's gift) literally fell apart and it just didn't make financial sense to replace it. Shortly after that I was put on some serious asthma medication that, while improving my ability to breathe, took away a lot of vocal control.

Not quite as big a loss as Julie Andrews losing her voice, but I was a little disappointed. And besides, when The Heirs later took up the guitar and I attempted to play even the simplest chord, I couldn't; two broken wrists, carpal tunnel surgery and arthritis has all taken their toll by this time.

It really didn't bother me until we started Open Mic nights at the cafe. Dark Garden decided that, by next Open Mic Night (July 6), I was going to learn Peace Train by Cat Stevens, I could use Heir 1's acoustic, he decided, and he would provide the percussion. The last time DG heard me sing and play, this had been feasible. I even went so far as to Google the chord progression for the song and steal away to where no one could hear me to make a stab at it.

There was no way my fingers were going to obey me as they used to, let alone one hand paying attention to what the other one was doing. I looked down at them and they appeared to be trying to get along, but my brain just wasn't letting anything resembling music manifest itself from anything my hands were doing; and I hadn't even attempted to add my voice yet.

I told Dark Garden there was no way -- I was used to a classical guitar, I said. Steel-string guitar necks are much narrower1 and I'd have to totally relearn the guitar to make the transition...blah, blah, blah.

Whew! Off the hook!

And then came my birthday.

I recognize it's very difficult to find an appropriate gift for a 55-year-old woman. We, as a group, tend toward martyrdom ("Oh, don't bother. I don't need a thing... ") or extravagance no one can fulfill (I recall ten years ago declaring I was going to spend my 55th birthday in Tuscany. Well...yesterday I watched Under the Tuscan Sun -- does that count?).

But, ya know...most people can come up with a totally non-threatening, benign gift. Heir 1 got me a gift certificate to Wild Bird Unlimited -- I mean, how perfect is that? Happy little birds...mentally handicapped little birds...harmless, right? Dirtman got me a candle I'd admired at our local nifty gift store ...and gin. The Divine Mrs. D2 (our Employee of the Month for the fourth straight month!) got me candles and lotion and cologne from Crabtree and Evelyn (I know. Right?). My sister- and brother-in-law -- their usual just-in-the-nick-of-time money.

See? Nothing scary there, right?

And then Dark Garden presented his gift -- a classical guitar -- the exact one I described.

Ride on the Peace Train (dit, dit, dit DAH)!

So there I found myself, on the evening of my 55th birthday sitting on my bed like I used to back when I was 13, trying to make my hands contort into new chord configurations; only these weren't new -- they were the simplest chords ever.

I reintroduced my hands to each other (though they hadn't been working together to knit all these years. You'd think they'd negotiated a working arrangement by now). My left had accused my right of lacking rhythm and my right hand accused my left of being slow and lazy.

None of us was ready for Cat Stevens.

So I went back to square one: 60s folk songs. I had dropped them from my repertoire in the mid-70s because I'd outgrown them musically (oh! Hubris!) and the lyrics were rather overly didactic for the age of disco and punk rock. Now here I was, unable to strum smoothly (I know, I know. The purists out there are screaming, "YOU DON'T STRUM A CLASSICAL GUITAR!!!" Well, that's what I always had and I couldn't afford two separate guitars -- one for classical pieces and one for modern stuff -- so I did what I had to do.) or switch from one chord to another without trying to see where my fingers were going.

So how did that first session end up?  Well, let's just say that on an advanced birthday, you should never try to do something you know you stink at that you used to do well. I drowned my sorrows in a martini, Chinese dumplings and a viewing of You Can't Take It With You.

Second session: the progressions begin to come back, all but the C chord -- don't ask me why. Fmaj7, Ddim, weird bar chords all begin to come back; but my C chord sounds like I've got cotton stuffed in the sound hole. Frustrated, I drape over the guitar and sulk.

...and my fingers start to move -- on both hands. Just a snippet of a Christopher Parkening piece from my classical days, but they remembered! Of course, as soon as I got involved my hands claimed I'd been dreaming; they couldn't possibly string together a classical phrase, no more than they could manifest a C chord.

Third Session: I'm able to change keys to where I don't need that damn C chord. My voice gets involved.

It stinks.

Fourth session: is later today. I'll let you know...

...after a martini...

1This is actually true. Classical guitar necks are very wide and, like feet in wide shoes, your hands get real comfy having all that room. When you try to make them fit into a narrower area, they get very testy.

2Someday I will devote an entire post to the Divine Mrs. D. For now, suffice to say we lucked up in the employee area.

The Cafe's got talent...

Well...We're good sports, at least...

 I come from a long line of frustrated musicians. Music -- and performing in general -- have always been a huge part of family gatherings for as long as I can remember.

Okay--give me a break about the "mike" thing; I'm very tired and my feet hurt.

Somewhere, probably in John Boy's Basement of Doom, is a reel-to-reel tape of my grandmother on guitar and my uncle on violin performing C' 'na luna mezz'u mare; and one of my earliest recollection is another of The Uncles doing a skit with my cousins that involved Crazy Foam and their Wire Haired Fox Terrier. John Boy's first drum set was my parent's suitcase as a snare drum and a metal trash can over-turned on a mic stand as a cymbal; my cousins were playing something on their guitars -- I don't know what, but I was singing I Should Have Known Better...badly.



Since then, we siblings and cousins have formed and reformed in various musical configurations, some even going professional (meaning some sort of item was given in exchange for the performance -- John Boy grossed $25  one night...) and we've passed this practice on to the next generation. So it was inevitable that, given our own venue, that we provide a showcase for this proclivity for ourselves and others like us.


Hence: The Courthouse Corner Cafe Open Mic Night.

Heir 1 (Charley) on acoustic, Dark Garden on drums, Mike Anderson on bass

Heir 2 (Joe) and Caisee

The Heirs

Trevor and Michael

Ladies and Gentlemen: The Von Trapp Family Singers

The Twinz (Trevor and Lucas) -- I think they're listening to the poem "Crab Boil" by Dark Garden -- hence this expression

...and the crowd went wild...sort of...

...still waiting for the crowd to go wild...

...okay, so me and Annette went wild...sort of...

Annette with some real poetry

I wasn't going to include this photo because it was so busy...until I looked a little closer...Lucas (on drums) has a stalker...

 


I can't say "thank you" enough for the community's support -- to Pastor Roy of Romney First United Methodist Church, who loaned us chairs; to Pastor Jack of Romney First Baptist Church for loaning us a mic stand; to Mike Anderson for helping out throughout this whole process and giving credibility to some of our jam sessions; to Steve and Ruth Martin of Church View Farm for their well wishes and the flowers (those roses smelled incredible!); and to the community members who braved the weather to come out (there were torrential rains and winds, not to mention TORNADOES in the area)!


Our next scheduled Open Mic Night is July 6 and we hope the antics of our inaugural event will convince more people to come in and sign up to perform.

Stupid Animal Tricks

I've lived in a rural area for almost 30 years and have seen and attempted to dodge a variety of road kill. I'm good at anticipating when some bewildered furry creature is going to stumble in front of my tires on a hairpin curve in the rain. I am diligent about braking for unauthorized deer crossing without a sign. But since arriving in West Virginia, never have I seen a collection of vermin so stubbornly determined to fling themselves under my wheels. Prior to moving here, I'd only been the cause of one roadkill: a chipmunk. That's it; 37 years of driving, one chipmunk (I don't count the deer that actually ran into me). Since moving, though, I have personally removed from the gene pool an opossum, two rabbits, and a raccoon (though I think this was more of a suicide).

As you all know, I'm an avid bird watcher. And one of the more common birds at my feeder has always been cardinals; so I'm pretty familiar with their behavior. They are not the brightest of birds, nor have they been the dumbest. I've never had one fly into window glass -- something that can't be said for the sparrow population.

Then I came here.

I'm trying very hard not to make this a "state-identity" thing; let's just say there is a family of cardinals in my neighborhood who are a few feathers short of a boa.

It started this spring, when a young bird's fancy turns to...well, it should be other young birds. But not the Kirby Cardinals (Kardinals? Too cute? Kute?). From what I observed, they were more enchanted with their reflection in our window than with each other.

Now I know absolutely nothing of avian eyesight, but you'd think they'd notice the object of their affection is of the same sex, leading me to the conclusion that Kirby, WV, is possibly the Fire Island of the Cardinal world.

Still, you would think after a couple times whacking into the window, the stupid birds would...stop...and find some other object of desire. But...no...no...they keep attempting to take off from a branch located right next to the window to fly into the window...over and over again. Early mornings sound like hail hitting the window.

So this morning I was getting ready to leave and I hear the familiar pitter-patter of misguided cardinals hitting the window coming from the living room. So I went to investigate and saw this looking back at me through the window.

 

I would like to stress the "looking at me" part; because he was looking at me...and Zsa Zsa...and Landshark, THE CAT.

Most birds would want to fly the other way. But, not this bird...

He just kept staring at me...the dog...and THE CAT...

...and continuing to fly through the window.

I can't tell you how this all ended since I stood there for about ten minutes waiting for it to occur to him that there was no way he was going to fly through the window to THE CAT and finally had to leave for work.

I envision him still perched on the rhododendron branch, swatting the window every now and then to check to see if it is still solid. I picture Landshark on the other side with the exact same goal.

Other People's Holiday

So.

Holiday weekend. For us, a very different holiday weekend in that we are now a part of other people's holiday weekends.

Prior to this, we'd have planned a picnic. There would have been floods of e-mails circulating among the three households -- Linguiniland, DG's house and John Boy up on his mountain. I would be running about throwing together noodle salads (heh...), DG would be gathering meat and John Boy would be assembling beer in the oldest cooler in the country (it's aqua and you can still barely make out a Ballentine beer logo on the front -- my parents earned it as a premium when we owned a store with a liquor license, though I suspect my father could have earned the points required without the aid of any of our customers. I was five when they got it...DG wasn't even born. I'm not even sure it functions as a cooler anymore; more as a holding container for beer and a lot of ice. I wouldn't put the noodle salad in there, though...)

Things were different this year. This year the Memorial Day weekend was all about the cafe because, for the most part, we are (meaning, the cafe is...) a component of other people's weekend.

I love the idea of people planning to visit us for breakfast as part of their total holiday itinerary; or that the cafe is used as a reward to well-behaved children enduring hours of grocery shopping for Monday's BBQ; or that the cafe is where our local customers take their out-of-town guests for their one night-out dining experience. I mean, isn't that so cool?

It does mean that now we have to grab our piece of the holiday when we can get it. And we do...

John Boy dropped by Saturday to sit in on the guys' preparations for the cafe's first Open Mike Night on Friday.

And, yes...we closed early on Memorial Day so we could relax a bit...

NOT all MY Empties

Ahem...well, so I could relax a bit...

 

 while DG and Heir 1 took care of the food... 

 ...and Dirtman served (Dirtman served us, which disappointed Hokie no end).

And I was still off my feet by 8:30 p.m. Some of you know the importance I place in being off my feet*.

And here's Zsa Zsa's nose because it's just the cutest ever.

*I know. Enough about my feet, right? But...you just don't know...

Like People Do

So today we were normal

Some of you may remember back when the Linguinis were always normal. But we haven't been normal for a very long time.

The term "normal," of course, if very subjective. Our seat-of-the-pants existence may have be considered normal in some circles; but I confess -- I'm rather pedantic in what I look for in life. I want a distinct lack of drama, pleasant, uneventful conversation and dinner at dinner time sitting at a table with the fork on the left and the knife and spoon on the right.

So that was today.

Normal.

No baking in a hot kitchen to the point of exhaustion and falling into bed, only to writhe around in pain because I hadn't realized I'd been standing for nine straight hours without a break; no overly-ambitious plans to bake a week's worth of pastries in one Sunday afternoon. I did a modicum of cafe baking, marinated a chicken, threw together a salad and then...

...then...

then...

I sat on my front porch and read.

Oh, yes I did. Even though there were clamberings for orange scones at the cafe, I sat on my porch and read a P.D. James novel and waved to people who drove by.

Then I cooked and dinner and me, Dirtman and Heir 1 sat at a table together and, for the first time in several months, ate a meal together.

And now that Dirtman has put fresh sheets on the bed, I'm going to crawl in and read some more!

That's right. I'm not going to bake or even think about making soup or pricing out the breakfast menu. I'm going to read...and I might even doze off.

Yeah, I know. Since I'm making such a big deal about all this, it's obviously not normal. True that.

However, I can't help thinking back fondly of the days when the Heirs got home-cooked meals all the time and they complained about not being able to eat fast food like all their friends; or when baking scones was such an infrequent treat, I needed a recipe and they never hung around long enough to have to be stored in Ziplocs (these days, I can't give away the rejects -- we're all so sick of looking at, taste-tesing and smelling fresh-baked scones; you think this time will never come but, believe me, it does...).

I'm not complaining...I am honestly so grateful the cafe is taking off and I absolutely love this work more than anything I've ever done.

I am also grateful, though, that we're finally settling in and finding our rhythm; so much so that on this one warm Sunday afternoon I can take off my cafe hat for a little while and just be a normal schmo relaxing up for the week ahead.

...like people do.

Minor ranting (no...really...minor)

Me, looking irritated

In the great scheme of things, I have very little to complain about. I have my basic needs met, got my health, a library card and TCM -- can't ask for much more than that.

The thing about having very little to complain about is that -- now this is only a theory -- it is human nature to find something to complain about. In my defense, when I find myself being annoyed by minor things, I mentally scold myself: "This is your problem? This?"

Still, my mind searches desperately for something...anything...that might fall beneath my lofty standard of perfection (I stress the "my" -- "my lofty standard of perfection" is really not difficult to attain and is certainly way, way below the standard of perfection of others I could name.).

Get ON with it, Sisiggy...

Okay, okay, okay...

So the phone rings. I politely answer...always, whether I'm at work or at home, I could be bawling over the death of my cat and I will cheerily and encouragingly answer the phone. Not because I'm a good person, but because I'm an ingratiating people-pleaser and whether you be a relative, friend or telemarketer, you must find no reason to dislike me, even in my phone greeting.

Get ON with it, Sisiggy... 

Okay...cheerily answer the phone. On the other end, hesitation; then a voice: "Who's this?"

You're calling me and I HAVE TO IDENTIFY MYSELF?

I told you, these are not earth-shattering complaints...

Or the assumption that my free time is up for grabs. This happens when someone wants me to accompany them somewhere or do something and instead of coming out and asking me to do it, asks, "What are you doing on Saturday?" As if, unless I come up with a convincingly dire task, I'm doomed to driving whomever to the airport, helping them move heavy furniture or accompanying them to their little Finster's dance recital.

Just for the record, when someone asks in this manner, I always tell them I'm clipping my dogs' toenails that day. I keep all these dogs for the specific purpose of avoiding running registration tables or walking 15 miles instead of just writing out a check.

NOT Loop-holers

One last one (though I could go on...), related to the cafe: The loop-holers.

First off, you need to know that our prices are very, very fair. No one has ever complained about our prices and several good customers, most whom have become friends, have suggested we don't charge enough.

In truth, we have applied the standard formula for coming up with prices. What we don't do is "add on" what the market will bear; mostly because these days you really can't tell what the market will bear and partly because we're more interested in running a cafe that's an integral part of the community than in gambling our credibility on getting rich (I know that sounds sappy and unbelievable, but there it is).

The loopholers, however, love to find ways to work the menu to get things cheap or free. We had one customer order a sandwich that was on special, only he/she wanted extra lettuce, tomato, and onion and to add some ranch dressing, all on the side in a separate container (it was a to-go order). Usually such requests are only made when one of the kids is taking the order because they'll let it go and we end up giving away a side salad on an already cheap order THAT'S GETTING FREE DELIVERY!*

Fortunately, such customers are the exception; but I have to admit that it takes all my resolve not to launch into a lengthy tirade when someone asks if we have free ice tea refills and proceeds to monopolize one of the Twinz' time refilling glasses of tea that they subsequently dump into one of those large, gallon thermoses*.

It occurred to me, as I was writing this, that it has been a long time since I've written a post like this -- universal irritants that can be easily soughed off; almost five years.

I guess I'm grateful that I notice them again.

But I'm still clipping the dogs' nails on Saturday.


*All of this could, of course, be avoided by instituting policies; but that becomes such a slippery slope and your menu ends up reading more like a legal document than a friendly list of good food. It's probably inevitable as we grow, but so far the number of people exploiting our better nature has been miniscule.

My Life With Food

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.

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.

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.

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?

"Babe.
 I got you, Babe
I got you Babe..."

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.

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.)

It ain't all dreamin' the dream...

Cash registers, bookkeeping, cleaning fluids, purchase orders -- this weekend we dealt with some of the less glamorous aspects of opening a cafe; only because there is nothing else we can do.

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.

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.

The Cafe

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."

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...

My life with pasta

Homemade ravioli for Christmas dinner

Lately I'm all about homemade pasta. You would think this activity would be in my DNA or something. Don't all Eye-talians know how to make pasta and sing opera?

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).

It's something I'd like to see incorporated into the cafe on a limited basis -- say, fresh noodles for the chicken and beef noodle soups. It's a little fiddly and I certainly wouldn't commit to fresh pasta dishes if we were a full-service restaurant (God bless restaurants that do!). But a couple of days a week, a couple of batches of noodles shouldn't be too much fuss.

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.