A Change is Going to Come

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Tomorrow I am going to say a few words that are going to change my life.  I know its going to happen because I am the one deciding to follow the opportunity for a new job.  So tomorrow I am going to tell my current kitchen adios, its been short and mostly fun.

I am afraid to do it because I know that it is very unexpected, and I don’t want to say goodbye to my friends.  I feel like I am sitting at a point where I am going to tip into a new direction, but nobody else around me knows that the mountain is going to roll with a different slope.  I have changed my life so many times that it’s daunting because I know what is in store.  I am not sure I want to do it again.  Start afresh and anew, undo everything just to redo it in another manner.  Close the shop, move everything, unpack, get resettled and acquainted with the surroundings, develop a bond with the people around.

Since attending pastry school 5 years ago, I have lived 4 different apartments and have worked in (kiki’s, custom house, girl and the goat, publican, farmhouse, province, cicchetti, deleece, now la sirena) 9 kitchens.  That is a lot of life change for one girl.  This constant shifting and continual movement is making me quite tired.  I am exhausted of starting over, of turning the page over again and seeing a white sheet.

Am I afraid to do it again?  Yeah, kinda.  Am I excited?  I am too tired to fully answer that question right now.  Truthfully I am not entirely sure how the situation is going to unravel, I cannot predict what the reaction will be.

Today was the last day to be simply today, par for the course, clear sailing, everything is just like it normally is for a Saturday.  Tomorrow we set sail for a new course, to chase a new star.

Daily tasks

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Cooks notes for the day:

That day when you don’t quite get the seal on the ice cream spinner door to suck properly in place, so as you spin the ice cream, the loose base drips steadily cause a huge, huge sticky mess. The entire time you are debating weather to take it out and start over, or roll with the continual mess.  Either scenario ends in a fanciful mess.  If the ice cream turns out icy again I am going to loose my cookies.

The restaurant next door come over to ask to borrow 70 pounds of fryer oil.  You respond casually: “only if you beg and crawl.”

The entire bottle of yuzu spill on the floor because the bottom inexplicably detached as if an invisible alien snuck into the kitchen and sliced off the entire bottom in one quick pull of the trigger.  $100 bottle gone in a flash, it was a delicious smelling mess.

The server warns you that you probably should help the lunch guy because she just rang in 6 plates.  6. Total. Plates.  She wants it to be less than 45 minutes and I am sympathetic.

There is a young good looking man/boy applying for a food runner position, so you try to check him out behind the semi-sheer black curtain.  You dropped your work to see him, but do you say hello?  Nah, don’t feel like it.

A beverage delivery man tells you he just saw a rat run into the employee bathroom.  I obviously do not believe him, until I see the prep guy pulling the door shut as to trap Mr. Raton.  Until he gets a moment to deal with the situation, you kindly tell your co-workers not to use the bathroom.  After he kills Mr. Raton, he chase one of the line cooks around the alley with the corpse of the rat.

We know that when the toaster and the freezer are plugged into the same outlet, the fuse will eventually blow.  The situation still remains unchanged.

Finally get around to changing the menu into a format that I find slightly more satisfying.  Slowly, so slowly moving into the right direction.  I realized today how much I have given up on bettering the restaurant and myself.  I am glad that I found some small spark of motivation and integrity to continue to do what I think is best.  It gets very challenging when you have too much on your plate, covered with a thick sauce of negativity, sprinkled with hesitation, doubt, and fatigue.  Today was a step to the right beat somewhere in that kitchen dance.

Behind in the times

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I am consistently and always at least a decade behind the trend of the week/ constantly catching up with the quick technological changes of the world.  Often I feel like I am constantly playing catch up with society, finally understanding what people are talking about like 12 years later. What is so great about my hesitancy to keep up with what the kids are doing, that sometimes I win the lottery.  I completely miss a trend, therefore not having to invest the time, energy, cool crystal, or deal with the physical matter of said trend.  Case in point: DVDS!!  I have successfully gone through life owning only 5 dvd movies.  I regret nothing about this lack of enthusiasm over a hobby/entertainment/creative outlet.  I am cleaning the studio, and I discovered my pitiful selection of dvds and this makes me so happy.  I wasted zero time, money, cool energy, diminished my plastic footprint in the garbage cans, and saved shelf space on the bookcase by not stacking this library and that is a life win.  Who cares about dvds? NOBODY.  And nobody ever will again.  Until the internet runs dry, perhaps, but my new sexy computer doesn’t even have a disk drive.  Cya cool rainbow reflective disc, never again.  Very sure that I can’t even give away my entire 5 disc dvd collection at the garage sale.

harmony

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Life is exciting and I feel happy. There are opportunities, even if they are not for me they are happening for my network, for my light strand. Its exciting to even extensionally be a part of the circus. If feel lucky to know people for whom good things are happening. Its fun. I finally don’t feel like I have to do everything to feel the reward. The reward is in the excitement in the air, the lightness in eyes, the quickness in the breathe, the pitch in the voice.

art as a reflection of personality

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What do my drawings say about me?  They are all symmetry obsessed and almost the entire collection to date is unfinished.  I start, get distracted, move on, content with the beginning, with the promise of a pretty product.  Really I am afraid to continue because I do not want to fuck it up.  I have to be in the mood for perfection, and the mood doesn’t strike all that often.  If its not going to be flawless then mind as well leave it, its good enough.  Does any of this make sense?  Its a bit laziness, a dusty muse, the fear of failure, the strive for self praise.

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Why I am obsessed with a delicate balance of thin black lines dancing on an off-white sheet?  Why do I find their movements so mesmerizing?  I find a strange serenity in their beautiful agreement, in their simplicity in the need not to argue or demand space.  The dance starts simple as a drum beat, the arrangement soothing.

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Do they have to be so balanced because I am so crooked?  Am I overcompensating? And is that a bad thing? It usually is.  Overcompensating.  Making up for something lacked in an area in which you seemingly have no control.  It’s my souls plea to have a better house, one that does lean quite so much.  I try to console her, saying that it makes the building unique, noticeable, and memorable.  A discontent soul, that one.  A prince could build her a palace and she would say too big, a waste of space, not enough pools.  An artist could build her a bungalow, and she would say too quaint, too excluded from society, bad acoustics.  She should be happy with the nest in the crooked tree.  If that was the case, I would be a better painter.

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Unicorn Lights

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I  miss the bright neon lights hemming the lake, twinkling unicorn colors under the dark Michigan sky.  The glassy lake reflects the rainbow glow, buffing the already-round edges of the Christmas light camps strung around the lucky lake.  I was so peaceful gazing at the camps full of happiness, joy, wonder, love, and curiosity from the opposite side of the lake.  In the cool seclusion of the dark night, I look across the lake at the slowly changing kaleidoscope scenery, feeling the energy but taking a break from the action.  Everything and anything you want is there, you can have it.  It is such a wonderful feeling to be able to join the party, or just take it all in under the expansive sky full of stars.  There is nothing more to want because it is perfect here.  This was a magical moment, where everything was perfect and there was nothing to desire.

Whimsical Nature

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To behave like a child again.  To believe in magic.  To let go of time, forget about money, loose all sense of shame and embarrassment, but still take care of oneself.  Radical self reliance is the concept.  Everyone gives and everyone shares, but you are expected to take care of your basic needs and try to help out anyone when the opportunity arises.  You make sure you are fed and sheltered and happy, then you explore a world where imagination and fun are fueled by fire and energy.  Its a magical place.  Magic and connection exist here.  I felt magic and delight come together in an adult playground.  There are swings that are built tall so that you can swing as high as you did when you were a child.  There are all type of swings:  long pendulums, various bench swings, a large circle swing suspended from the middle at the top that sways slowly in the wind, dancing to the constant drum beat from the loud camps, another circle swing, this one built for just one, hidden in the forest.  There were all multitudes of hammocks, along the shore and floating on a barge in the lake.  I got to swing in a tutu with a long scarf dragging behind me, as I sway high and twirl around the heavy chains, with my toes pointed and legs fashioned in sweeping grace.  I also got to sway in my Indian princess dress, feeling like queen.  Magical.

The swinging was one of my favorite parts.  Another was a giant, throbbing pink heart that you could sit in.  The heart was made out of thin wood with 4 cut-outs ranging from red to light pink.  Behind each heart were rope lights that light up singularly, blinking backwards toward the largest inner heart.  Afar in the darkness, the heart looked like it was throbbing.  Behind the largest heart, there was a spot for two people to sit facing each other.  There were two heart shaped pillows for each person, one for your back and out for your head. It was very peaceful in there.  I had three great moments in there.  One of the best moments was when that magical man appeared out of nowhere just to catch my eye.  He light a cigarette and in the space between the cut-out hearts, his eyes smirked a fiery hello, greeted with my refreshing glaze.  That twinkle is the magic that I seek.  Its more than a sparkle, its a twinkle, a small yet hot spark.

The flame.  Everywhere the flame.  The cumulative burn is on the last night, when this giant, beautiful wooden structure is set ablaze, a literal burning of ideas and concepts that are your own personal restraint, a concept that can free one’s mind to behave again like a child.  To not be burdened by stature, looks, dress code, financial status, popularity, skin or gender or sexuality, hair type, shoe size, breast size, pant size, style, trend level, emotional problems.  Its less complicated then that.  Its like when you were 6 and you wanted to wear mismatched cloths, your friends were all in the neighborhood and nobody had any idea what their parents did for money.  Except here it is better, because you know who you are and how to take care of oneself.  Its magical.

Aside from the magnificent and epic burning of the effigy, fire is a constant theme throughout the camps. It is embodied in many shapes, but mostly coming hot and fast through iron pipes.  Some spit fire balls high into the air, the heat being felt strongly below.  Some are laced close to the ground, circling the dance floor.  Some are the top of an art sculpture.  Another interpretation of flame was slinking along a black ceiling,  creating a fire flower affect.  There were fires in iron barrels that had stencils cut out identifying the camp.  Of course there was a fire pit at the camp ground, which was the base for our camp home.

I felt a smirk of magic there, and I hope to keep some of that feeling here in the real world.  I left that magic man in the fairy tale, because its best to end at the last page in the story.  I will take home the simplicity and the whimsical, the content to not want anymore that what the imagination can provide.

Sam

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I don’t like to talk about the curved condition of my spine.  It’s embarrassing.  It’s a sign of weakness.  It’s a deformity.  I know, you might not care very much, but for me, it makes me blush.  There are seriously only a handful of people who know about Sam.  My mumsy and my two best friends being just about the full extent of the all-knowing club.  Which is well-played considering that the physical presence of Sam is not subtle.  He is obvious, he is bold.  There is nothing shy about Sam.

I always have tight shoulders and always need a back rub, but I hardly ever let a friend/boyfriend/lover/ acquaintance/ anyone give me a massage.  I avoid it actually. I always say no. Even if someone is nice enough to offer up some TLC.  I don’t care about the pain, I don’t want them to find Sam and label me in any way.  Or be grossed out, or turned off, or see me as pathetic.  I am very sensitive about what people think about the severe curve that has made a home in the spine.  The only way I can talk about it is through a clandestine mask of Marigold.  She is not as shy as I am.

Remember in middle school when they had an annual check up, when you had to go into the women’s bathroom and bend at the waist so that a doctor could check for a curve?  Well one year after the simplest of tests, it was seen.  Sam was spotted.  As soon as that genetic seed had blossomed, the bathroom doctor sent me to a specialist.

They caught it early. To this day, I still don’t know why they were so concerned with spotting the scoliosis right from the get go.  It’s nothing like cancer, where if you catch it early on it means all the difference in the world as far as treatment is concerned.  As for my genetic mutation, I have no idea why I was paraded from doctor to doctor.  There was and there is no treatment.  They basically informed me early on that I was fucked.

I went to a chiropractor who said he could cure me.  That was a surprising lie (not).  In reality I have never been given any treatment.  They said hope for the best but if it gets worse we are going to cut you open, slicing up your body like a half peeled apple, splicing a spiraling staircase out of your body starting at your breastbone and twisting around my small waist to the upper part of my butt.  They wanted to pop me open like a canister of Pillsbury crescent rolls.  Then they would insert a metal rode, fuse a portion of my spine together, guaranteeing arthritis in the future, and, lastly, an impressive scar for keepsake. Wow, thanks.  I will pray extra hard doc for a miraculous reversal of a crooked spine.

So for a long time instead of growing up, I grew sideways, praying for a salvation that is for all intents and purposes is impossible.  The doctors never said go to physical therapy, they never said do yoga everyday, they never said get a massage every week.  They called me deformed, content with the belief that the only treatment was god’s will.  I have never been a lucky girl.  So instead I closed my eyes and went through adolescence as freak, as a deformed little girl, terrified about the possibility of becoming a bionic girl.

So I hide Sam from the world. I still like to pretend that I am a straight women leading a non curved life.  But really, Sam is my constant companion, he is my reason for being the strange, slightly askew woman that I am.

Since Marigold is to make me a bolder person, since Marigold is a way for me to exercise being comfortable with who I am, and since Marigold is to highlight the best of my amazing life, this post is to help me be more comfortable with what is inside my skin.  To be less bashful, to take myself less seriously.  Life is, after all, short and sweet, not long and severe.

Cheers Chicago.

just another day

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I am blessed with very sensitive skin.  Combined with the attribute of wearing my emotions on my sleeve, I battle with acne.  Its the worst.  Its on your face, and its so noticeable.  Thank the good goddess for make-up.  Its so good.  But my problem is that I cannot kept up with the upkeep.  I work in a 100 degree kitchen.  That is not an overstatement.  Its hotter then balls hot.  My makeup runs, I look like joker town fool by the end of my shift.

So I have this zombie dead zit that is the worst.  Its been holding steady on my fore head for honestly months.  It won’t budge, just chillen, making a home.  But now its full blow sickness, it a colony plotting to take over my whole face.  Really, my face it going to turn into a big zit.  Its happened before, and its. Terrifying.  Downright awful.  Its going to chew my pretty face, consume my self, and I will be left right where I am now.  I have had three people comment on my face.  The first asked if I got cut, the second if I had a bruise, and the third if I got into bike accident what’s wrong with your face?  Honest to goddess, this happened.  A bike accident?? A bike accident.  No. Nope.  Just a zit.  I mean this happens to me.  I get a fuck face zit for like half a year.  The worst? Terrifying??

No.

Not even close.

Honestly I don’t give a fuck about my face town fiasco.  What I walked into today at work was terrifying.  It was beyond a blemish turned bruised.  I walked into a pure hell of a greasy mess.  How and what have I done to deserve this level of grossness.  I almost had a heart attack.  No warning, just a ball of hot greasy splattered evenly across every surface.  Dust settling again on top.  New oil waits new grease.  I couldn’t even walk from my cup of coffee to my station.  I had to walk around the entire restaurant just to get from the front line to the back.  Within being there for no less then 5 minutes, I had inexplicable oil on my hand.  One hand sink was being repaired and out of commission.  Since it was being worked on, there were tools everywhere, around the sink and the hallway leading to the office.  Everywhere I looked and walked was not okay.  Not a single sight being up kept or cared for.  Everywhere is neglected.  Fuck, I haven’t been there for one day.  One.  The other hand sink was so dirty it looked like a bus boy had puked it in.  There was no soap at that sink.  Mind you, I had to walk a solid 2 minutes to get to 2/2 no functioning sinks.  No big deal.  NBG. Its only me.

What have I done to deserve this?  If I was in prison, it would be cleaner.  And it might most likely be a more pleasant environment.

Good goddess I wish this was the end.  Only the beginning really of my day.  Remember, this is first 5 minute of the day.  The kitchen was a greasy snot ball of hell for the first hour.  After a fury of soap and anger, I checked the schedule.  Oh, I am working the hot line by myself, after no real training.  Also, was I warned?  Nope.  Last conversation with chef was that I should start learning the station.  So now I am on my own, with no warning, a station I hardly know, apparently in charge what comes out of the kitchen, a fucking messy ass kitchen, plus I have my pastry prep to do, put the order away, oh yeah there is a 100 person party tomorrow at noon.  Did I mention no warning of an extra aside from the party?  That at least I was informed about.  Carrot cake is good and fast, but goodness.  At the end of the shift, the chef was courteous enough to remind me that if I had cut the cake, I wouldn’t have to come in so early in the morning.  God damn, if only I had thought of that.

Its Tuesday.  Tuesdays are slow.  Its a chill day.  We started with a nice embarrassing 14 on the books.  But of course, since I was so ill prepared for the day we got shook.  Mini earth quake.  It was a smooth earthquake, but it could have been less exciting.

Oh, I think I am going to work 12 hours tomorrow.  NBD.