We had arrived and parked the car as everyone else was leaving. We weren’t at a launch or a bike path, so I’m not exactly sure where we parked, and, actually, I don’t know the cross-roads because I was too nervous to notice. I stared at the people getting into their cars, hoping to make eye contact with one of them. Hoping that they would think it odd that a young, uncomfortable looking couple would be walking into the park at this time of night.
The sound of mulch and branches cracking wasn’t as loud as the deafening sound of silent fear blaring in my ears as we walked down the path into the woods. It was dusk sometime in the summer of 2007. I can’t remember the month now, but the days were getting shorter, so maybe it was august...
The deeper we walked into the brush, the narrower the path became until there really wasn’t a path anymore. It became a little hillier and I could feel my stomach sinking as my heart felt like it was lodged in my throat. We walked further and I kept trying to keep my composure, but it was increasingly difficult.
We neared the water, and that’s when the fight broke out. Honestly, it’s all a blur. In my memory, I see the water and I see the trees all around me. The water seems still and dark and the trees seem to reach the heavens. They looked about a thousand feet tall.
Whatever I can see always begins a violent swirling and turns at a dizzying pace. I hear my feet running through the woods in dark, I hear him yelling after me. That familiar, vicious tenor in his voice. Only this time, it’s worse. For the first time, he’s panicked; He went too far, and things didn’t work out the way he wanted.
Fast forward two years. Life has settled into some type of normalcy. I’m working, living in a house my family helped to make a home. I’m busy and curious, and doing all of the things I used to do before he walked into my life. For the most part, I feel somewhat whole again. Every day is a new chance to start over again.
Better – I feel like a new person, the someone I was born to be.
Still, sometimes something is not quite right. I still think about it every day, not on purpose….Maybe 10 or 20 times a day, depending on the season, or the music playing on the radio. I always think about it when I run.
I sleep through the night now, with fewer night terrors than ever. The only time I dream about it is when I’m feeling stressed about some other aspect of my life.
I have friends, I go out on dates. I’ve had relationships, and even brushed up against something that looked and sounded like love a few times. I start all over again, practicing for the real thing. There is a hopeful feeling about the future. There is a certainty about the brightness that lights the path ahead - my whole life, just lying out there infront of me.
But sometimes, when things are really, really quiet, there’s that feeling. It mostly happens when I’ve taken a risk and made myself vulnerable to something on purpose, as a learning lesson; a chance to grow.
I run errands, I pay bills. I walk my dogs and grocery shop. I teach my classes, I shop for vases and accent pieces. I listen to my favorite music and buy pretty bouquets of flowers to cheer my home, and dog bones to spoil lucy and mia.
I work everyday. On the rare occasion that I don’t, I stay home and sleep late. I shuffle around my house in my pajamas, avoiding boring chores like dusting and cleaning the bathtub. I’m just not into it. I want to relax.
I notice that even after two years, I still require a tremendous amount of rest and peace. I need things to be easier than I used to make them on myself. I’ve learned to avoid unnecessary stress and drama as an energy preservation technique. I walk away when I need a break. Sometimes, I even avoid having to make a decision. I just don’t want to.
I went to the bank last week to make the mortgage payment. The parking lot is under construction. I drove around the long way to avoid the blocked view onto the main road.
I drove through the strip mall and glanced over to the right. There he was.
There is a jarring feeling. Even when I think I’m not thinking about it, I must be, but I’m too busy to notice. It lurks around for a few days. Everything that happens after, even the really small, inconsequential stuff can only be seen through that lens. Everything floats to the surface like debris from a shipwreck. Memories like driftwood bob up and down.
Good news! Here’s another chance to start over again. I hype myself up to look at it as positively as I can. What am I going to do? Cry?
The thing is, everyone wants to talk to me about forgiveness. Everyone tells me that I have to forgive him for my sake, and not for his. And, for two years, I just can’t bring myself to do it, because it makes me feel that I’m continuing to allow or accept his abuse. It seems like it would be representative of me saying that it is ok, and giving him some kind of pass.
Maybe, worse, I realize that if I think that if I forgive it, it didn’t happen. As if the brush of forgiveness will wipe it all away. He used to say that no one would believe me. The idea of forgiving and wiping it away somehow makes that true in my mind. Somehow, it seems like it would make him right.
The events of the week have my thoughts whirling around in my head. I’ve had a stomach ache for 9 days. Even when you may not be consciously aware that you are stressed out, unconsciously, your body has way of letting you know how things are really going. That’s good news for me, considering that I spend almost every moment working with nose to the grindstone, with the serious business of moving on with my life.
Sitting at my desk, I notice that the churning hasn’t gone away. I decide to pay attention to the nagging feeling; it’s time to acknowledge that it’s there. I take a quick, and somewhat ugly self-inventory. So…. I’m frustrated. There’s also some disappointment. Hmmm…. Maybe a tinge of anger. I start looking for the reason at the root of it all. Doesn’t take long…
I look down at the ring that always, and without conscious intent, ends up on my left hand. The ring I kept and still don’t know why, except that wearing it is a way to remind myself that I believe the right thing, the real thing is out there. It’s comforting to wear the symbol, even if the dream died. I believe that it’s possible for the dream to be realized one day, but not if I keep holding on to the little pieces of what was supposed to be.
I wrote and re-read that last paragraph and can’t even begin to write it the way it is supposed to read. Sometimes, my thoughts don’t necessarily match up with what I end up writing. The ring isn’t about love. The ring isn’t about some jackass I was engaged to. The ring is the reminder of where I was and who I am now, and reconciling the two. The ring is about holding on…. And there is nothing good there to hold onto.
The ring is also a way to keep others at arms length, and sometimes, I still feel the need to do that. It’s the universal sign for “not interested”, or “unavailable”. It’s also the universal sign that you aren’t alone, and, for someone like me, I don’t want anyone to think that no one would notice if I were suddenly missing. I don’t want to appear to be an isolated single woman.
His ring is titanium. I remember vividly the day I bought it.
The churning is still there, and I’m realizing that there needs to be acceptance and detachment from what was. There needs to be another new beginning. I feel like an animal molting every few months. It seems like I need to shed the old, scaly skin, peeling off another layer. I haven’t forgiven him, and I’m still very angry towards him, but I’m getting closer to my goal of total resolution.
I drive out towards where I used to live, trying to remember exactly how to get there. I make a couple wrong turns, and am getting impatient. I just want to get this over with and be there before dark. Finally, I find the right road and turn onto the gravel opening to my left. I park my car and notice that there are other people there, eating dinner on the grass.
The sun still shines as I walk slowly over towards the soft dirt path and start making my way into the heart of the woods. As I walk, all I can think about is how long it’s taking to get there. I thought that the trek was only long in my memory. I thought I was walking miles into the darkness that night, and now I can see with a clear head, that this is a very long walk after all. I feel calm and detached until I see the opening from the woods and the water just before me.
There’s a Cub Scout group pitching tents and a middle-aged man fishing off the pier.
They say hello and I sit down on the grass and stare at the water. I never expected anyone else to be there, and, I’m somewhat disappointed.
I wanted to do this alone. I came here before without another soul in the world to help me then, and I wanted to be alone now. Alone with my memory, alone with what was left of my anger, alone with my resolve to start over again…again.
I sat there for a while longer and took one last long look at the water that lie in front of me. I noticed the cattails and the lily pads a little further away. Without my conscious permission, my imagination saw what I had imagined the first time I was here; my body floating and hidden in the cattails and tall grass. Sick, I know.
I got up and turned back towards the path to find a higher place to look at the water in privacy. I kept walking, feeling like I could walk for miles until I found the right place. Finally, I came to an incline where I could see the water, and was completely enveloped by the green brush. I looked up at the trees. They still seemed a thousand feet tall. Looking back at the water, I took the rings out of my pocket, and threw them into the lake.
As I watched the water ripple out into larger circles, I thought about how the actions of one person cause such larger effects on the people who get close to them. I thought about how out of the millions of people on this earth, one person made not only ripples, but tidal waves in my life, and not only didn’t care, but tried to drown me in his own wake.
I thought about the kind of person that I want to be, and how I fall short of who that person is, but believe that I’m doing the best that I can. And honestly, I’m proud of how far I’ve come, but I fear that I have made unwelcome ripples in the lives of others without meaning to, and though it makes me a hypocrite, I hope they can forgive me.
Standing there, I don’t believe that my life is terrible. Something terrible happened to me, but I knew that if I allowed myself to be ruined, he would get what he always wanted, even if he wasn’t around to see it firsthand. He already had enough influence when I was with him, I wasn’t about to give him anymore in his absence.
I watched the last ripple disappear and took one more look at the greenery that surrounded me. I turned and walked towards the path and listened to the sound of the brush crunching under my feet. I felt happy that I faced my fear and brought myself to the site of one of my worst memories. I felt a little lighter and a little closer to letting it go. I thought about the concept of acceptance and embracing what was and what is, as well as accepting that I have no control over either, or, what will be.
I may never forgive him…and I accept that too. And I’m learning to accept that I can do whatever I need to do for myself at any given moment - and sometimes it will hurt, and sometimes it will be fantastic. And while I actively practice the teachings and principles of acceptance, what I won’t accept is a life without boldness, a life without truly experiencing everything I can, because that’s just not a life at all.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Birthday
On a chilly day in March of 2007, the Macomb County Sheriff’s office announced that they had found a torso that they believed to be the remains of Tara Grant, a woman who had been murdered and dismembered by her husband, Stephen Grant. I had been following the case for months, hoping that if I were missing, people would be looking for me.
Obsessed with missing persons cases, I followed the updates religiously. It was pathetic and sick, but I couldn’t keep myself from following them. It was a tribute to the sisterhood of the abused. I saw myself as a missing person waiting to happen – a future series of headlines that would eventually fade from the front page.
I knew it wasn’t a matter of if he would kill me, but when. I knew that if I stayed with him, my fate would be the same as the hundreds of women who were involved with this type of person. On a long enough timeline, living in domestic violence, the survival rate drops to zero.
As Steven Grant feined agony and worry of his “missing wife”, knowing full well that he chopped her into a million pieces and shoved her in a Rubbermade tub, it was in that moment that I resolved that I would end my relationship with this man. Standing in the lobby of Lifetime Fitness, surrounded by people who thought I had the perfect life, the perfect job, the perfect fiancé, the perfect future, I started thinking about reclaiming my life, even if it meant that I would lose it.
I was just longer afraid to die. I had nothing else to lose. I decided I would rather die than to live one more day under his control. I would rather be dead, and finally at rest than to walk around, tormented and exhausted, acting as if everything was ok.
Don’t rock the boat. Keep the peace. I was certain that this was going to be my situation for the rest of my life, so I resigned myself to making things as “easy” as I could for myself because I had no reason to believe that there was a way out.
I stopped running when I was engaged to him because I was exhausted. It was strange because I thought that running would be the only thing I would want to do, since the abuse was never-ending, and escalating all the time.
No more visits or phone calls from my friends, no more time for the things I used to enjoy. No more yoga. No more running. No more me.
During the lonely and frightful times, I was hurt and very afraid. Exhaustion had become a way of life because he would disrupt me at every turn. Phone calls in the middle of the night, late night visits, constant calls at work. There was never a moment that I could get away from him.
In September 2007, 5 months after my resolution, I walked away with the help of a small handful of people I trusted with my secret and I started my life over again. It seemed like I would never stop being angry. It seemed like I would never stop hating him. I was certain that I couldn’t let go. The physical scars were gone, but the emotional scares were still there.
this person ran through my life like a train off the tracks, leaving total devastation in his midst. For a solid year and half I managed to hold it together, convinced that there was no way out. I purposed to placate him as best I could so that the blow-ups would be “manageable”. And then I realized that “manageable” really meant, “fatal”.
After it was over, I would go for the occasional run when I could summon enough energy to lace up the shoes. I felt frustrated at first, starting all over again, thinking about how I used to be so much better at this… faster, stronger, more graceful. The judgment became too much and I stopped again. I had been comparing myself to the person I was before I met him, and that person has been gone now for a very long time.
I always thought about how I must have looked, awkward and slow(er), carrying 15 pounds that hadn’t been there before. How must I have looked to people walking by…. And, then, I realized, “who cares?”
Who cares that I’m not the same person I was in 2004, or earlier? Who cares that I gained 15 pounds? Who cares that I’m slower? Who cares that I’m not as graceful? Why did I want so badly to be that person again? What was “wrong” with the person I actually became?
The person I became as a result of that experience is stronger, more confident, and resilient. The person I became is fearless, proud and smart. Sometimes silently apprehensive, but always outwardly certain. One foot in front of the other, running towards the rest of my life. And, with this realization, two years in the making, I started running again, and, with a vengeance.
It’s on my run that I can think about whatever may be bothering me, or whatever swirls around me, with the relative distance that I still may keep from others. On my run, I can reflect on where I’ve been and where I’m going, and the people I meet along the way. On my run, I can appreciate that I finally have the gift of time and personal space, something I never thought I could ever have. Something I took for granted prior to meeting him.
August 31 is my birthday, but September 16 is the day that I got to start my life all over again, but it almost feels like every day is September 16. I get to start all over again every time I wake up, and as I wait to turn 29, I can’t think of a greater, more precious gift than that.
Obsessed with missing persons cases, I followed the updates religiously. It was pathetic and sick, but I couldn’t keep myself from following them. It was a tribute to the sisterhood of the abused. I saw myself as a missing person waiting to happen – a future series of headlines that would eventually fade from the front page.
I knew it wasn’t a matter of if he would kill me, but when. I knew that if I stayed with him, my fate would be the same as the hundreds of women who were involved with this type of person. On a long enough timeline, living in domestic violence, the survival rate drops to zero.
As Steven Grant feined agony and worry of his “missing wife”, knowing full well that he chopped her into a million pieces and shoved her in a Rubbermade tub, it was in that moment that I resolved that I would end my relationship with this man. Standing in the lobby of Lifetime Fitness, surrounded by people who thought I had the perfect life, the perfect job, the perfect fiancé, the perfect future, I started thinking about reclaiming my life, even if it meant that I would lose it.
I was just longer afraid to die. I had nothing else to lose. I decided I would rather die than to live one more day under his control. I would rather be dead, and finally at rest than to walk around, tormented and exhausted, acting as if everything was ok.
Don’t rock the boat. Keep the peace. I was certain that this was going to be my situation for the rest of my life, so I resigned myself to making things as “easy” as I could for myself because I had no reason to believe that there was a way out.
I stopped running when I was engaged to him because I was exhausted. It was strange because I thought that running would be the only thing I would want to do, since the abuse was never-ending, and escalating all the time.
No more visits or phone calls from my friends, no more time for the things I used to enjoy. No more yoga. No more running. No more me.
During the lonely and frightful times, I was hurt and very afraid. Exhaustion had become a way of life because he would disrupt me at every turn. Phone calls in the middle of the night, late night visits, constant calls at work. There was never a moment that I could get away from him.
In September 2007, 5 months after my resolution, I walked away with the help of a small handful of people I trusted with my secret and I started my life over again. It seemed like I would never stop being angry. It seemed like I would never stop hating him. I was certain that I couldn’t let go. The physical scars were gone, but the emotional scares were still there.
this person ran through my life like a train off the tracks, leaving total devastation in his midst. For a solid year and half I managed to hold it together, convinced that there was no way out. I purposed to placate him as best I could so that the blow-ups would be “manageable”. And then I realized that “manageable” really meant, “fatal”.
After it was over, I would go for the occasional run when I could summon enough energy to lace up the shoes. I felt frustrated at first, starting all over again, thinking about how I used to be so much better at this… faster, stronger, more graceful. The judgment became too much and I stopped again. I had been comparing myself to the person I was before I met him, and that person has been gone now for a very long time.
I always thought about how I must have looked, awkward and slow(er), carrying 15 pounds that hadn’t been there before. How must I have looked to people walking by…. And, then, I realized, “who cares?”
Who cares that I’m not the same person I was in 2004, or earlier? Who cares that I gained 15 pounds? Who cares that I’m slower? Who cares that I’m not as graceful? Why did I want so badly to be that person again? What was “wrong” with the person I actually became?
The person I became as a result of that experience is stronger, more confident, and resilient. The person I became is fearless, proud and smart. Sometimes silently apprehensive, but always outwardly certain. One foot in front of the other, running towards the rest of my life. And, with this realization, two years in the making, I started running again, and, with a vengeance.
It’s on my run that I can think about whatever may be bothering me, or whatever swirls around me, with the relative distance that I still may keep from others. On my run, I can reflect on where I’ve been and where I’m going, and the people I meet along the way. On my run, I can appreciate that I finally have the gift of time and personal space, something I never thought I could ever have. Something I took for granted prior to meeting him.
August 31 is my birthday, but September 16 is the day that I got to start my life all over again, but it almost feels like every day is September 16. I get to start all over again every time I wake up, and as I wait to turn 29, I can’t think of a greater, more precious gift than that.
Friday, July 17, 2009
First Draft of the Real Simple Essay Contest Entry
There are about twenty of them, all lined up along the wall of the pool like ballerina’s on a bar. I stood back today and noticed their beauty. Tall, short, fat, skinny, apples, pears and hourglasses. Women of every imaginable shape and size were moving gracefully through their exercises in our aqua aerobics class.
They come to class with their hair and make-up done, adorned with jewelry. Marilyn wears the ashes of her husband in a locket around her neck, but never in the pool, of course. This morning, one of the ladies reminded her that she had forgotten to take it off. She quickly scrambled up the steps, went back into the locker room, and put the necklace aside until she would collect it again after class. Somehow I could tell that even an hour without nearness to “him” was just too long.
There are about 8 “Mary’s” in our class. One of the Mary’s was talking to Jann about how her husband had lost his hearing aide AGAIN this morning, and that was why they were so late. The other lady laughed as Mary said, “You know – it wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. I don’t help him until he starts to panic. Otherwise he will expect me to help him find every little last thing he loses. Do you know where it was?! In his pajama’s pocket!”
It was apparent to me that Mary would be fetching things for Tom a lot more now than she ever had, as Tom’s health is in somewhat of a serious decline. Though many people could misunderstand her story and think she was irritated with him, I could sense that she is proud to be the only woman in Tom’s life who could be trusted with such an important task. She doesn’t ignore his needs or crises; she just wants to empower him to keep some of his independence and masculinity. She wants him to have dignity.
When I first became their instructor 8 months ago, I had never even been to an aqua aerobics class in my life. I had much more experience teaching able-bodied young professionals the fine art of riding a bike in the dark that goes nowhere – spinning.
I went out and bought a bathing suit and showed up for class with my cover-up and was amazed at the sight of these women – all shapes and sizes, walking around in their bathing suits in total confidence. Cellulite, muffin top, back-fat, wrinkles and varicose veins, these women had it all! I was shocked at the ease with which they strode over to the pool steps and waded gracefully into the water. Talk about freedom!
We exercise, but mostly, they talk. They talk about their children, and the appointments that they’ve made for the week. They discuss the problems of aging that I had never considered. How do you get to the doctor’s office to have your hip replacement looked at, if you don’t want to be a burden on your working children?
They ask me about dating and if I’ve met anyone special. They wait excitedly all week to hear the outcome of “the talk” that I had with my boyfriend, eager to give me their wisdom and insight.
They tell me not to marry someone much older than I am, because he might be young now, but he won’t be young for long. They explain that soon I will be in the prime of my life, and he will need to be wheeled around to the doctor’s office for HIS hip replacement, and that won’t be much fun for me. I have to admit, I never thought of it that way.
I tell them that I’ve never had much ambition to devote to nabbing a husband for myself, and they sort of stare at me quizzically, even though moments before, Agnes had joked that when her husband dies, she’s “not going to get another one”, as if she were replacing a toaster oven on the fritz (which older people use with wild enthusiasm, by the way). She continues, “I already had children; I’m not taking care of another one! One man in my lifetime is enough for me!” and they all laughed in unison.
When I explain that the concept of marriage hasn’t historically been attractive to me, they ask questions, sincerely wondering how anyone could feel this way. I simply explain that I really don’t know any happily married people. They say, “people nowadays expect too much.”, and then they move on to another topic.
When they ask about whoever my boyfriend may be at that time, and I make some kind of unenthusiastic facial expression, they’re quick to get to the bottom of the story. If the cause of the disillusionment on my part is something that they find to be even remotely intolerable, they evoke the wisdom of their many years of “marital bliss” and say, “find someone else, honey”.
As I watched them do plia’s in the therapy pool and talking about the latest mystery novel they’re reading, I was breathless at their collective confidence and certainty. I stared at them in total awe. These women were mothers, wives, sisters and friends. They are allies, counselors, advisors and matriarchs. Some of them had been home-makers, and others had careers, which was not necessarily “en vogue” in their time.
They care genuinely about the health and wellness of their classmates and look forward to each 10 o’ clock class, enthusiastically awaiting the arrival of their friends. They take turns bringing in “get well” cards for classmates who are in the hospital or at home resting after a procedure.
As I’ve closely observed “the water babies” as I like to call them, I’ve learned so much about life, love and loyalty. I’ve learned about the pride that comes with being a woman and a lady, and I’m no lady – but, hell, I guess I could try...
I’ve given much thought to health, wellness, and self-care in my short 28 years. I’ve learned that good health is a gift that you give to yourself. I had always been independent. I had always had a strong desire to take care of myself and live my life on my terms. I was never going to be a candidate for putting others needs before my own, at the risk of my health, but what I hadn’t realized was that self-care comes from self-love, and that can only be learned in time.
Self-love is about confidence and security. It’s an air of boldness, courage, an investment with infinite returns. It’s making a space for yourself, even if it’s just one hour a day of aqua aerobics while your family and health concerns swirl around you. Self-love was the mark of true adulthood, though sadly, many people never will actualize it.
I realized that I had become a grown-up when I watched the water babies and accepted them as they were, without shallow judgments about their bodies, bathing suits, or books they read. I realized that I had become a grown up when I learned that there was so much that I didn’t know, and that I was incredibly fortunate to be learning from these glorious women twice a week. I was a grown up when I realized that I was not their teacher, I, too, was a student, eager to learn from their many years of experience and grace.
They come to class with their hair and make-up done, adorned with jewelry. Marilyn wears the ashes of her husband in a locket around her neck, but never in the pool, of course. This morning, one of the ladies reminded her that she had forgotten to take it off. She quickly scrambled up the steps, went back into the locker room, and put the necklace aside until she would collect it again after class. Somehow I could tell that even an hour without nearness to “him” was just too long.
There are about 8 “Mary’s” in our class. One of the Mary’s was talking to Jann about how her husband had lost his hearing aide AGAIN this morning, and that was why they were so late. The other lady laughed as Mary said, “You know – it wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. I don’t help him until he starts to panic. Otherwise he will expect me to help him find every little last thing he loses. Do you know where it was?! In his pajama’s pocket!”
It was apparent to me that Mary would be fetching things for Tom a lot more now than she ever had, as Tom’s health is in somewhat of a serious decline. Though many people could misunderstand her story and think she was irritated with him, I could sense that she is proud to be the only woman in Tom’s life who could be trusted with such an important task. She doesn’t ignore his needs or crises; she just wants to empower him to keep some of his independence and masculinity. She wants him to have dignity.
When I first became their instructor 8 months ago, I had never even been to an aqua aerobics class in my life. I had much more experience teaching able-bodied young professionals the fine art of riding a bike in the dark that goes nowhere – spinning.
I went out and bought a bathing suit and showed up for class with my cover-up and was amazed at the sight of these women – all shapes and sizes, walking around in their bathing suits in total confidence. Cellulite, muffin top, back-fat, wrinkles and varicose veins, these women had it all! I was shocked at the ease with which they strode over to the pool steps and waded gracefully into the water. Talk about freedom!
We exercise, but mostly, they talk. They talk about their children, and the appointments that they’ve made for the week. They discuss the problems of aging that I had never considered. How do you get to the doctor’s office to have your hip replacement looked at, if you don’t want to be a burden on your working children?
They ask me about dating and if I’ve met anyone special. They wait excitedly all week to hear the outcome of “the talk” that I had with my boyfriend, eager to give me their wisdom and insight.
They tell me not to marry someone much older than I am, because he might be young now, but he won’t be young for long. They explain that soon I will be in the prime of my life, and he will need to be wheeled around to the doctor’s office for HIS hip replacement, and that won’t be much fun for me. I have to admit, I never thought of it that way.
I tell them that I’ve never had much ambition to devote to nabbing a husband for myself, and they sort of stare at me quizzically, even though moments before, Agnes had joked that when her husband dies, she’s “not going to get another one”, as if she were replacing a toaster oven on the fritz (which older people use with wild enthusiasm, by the way). She continues, “I already had children; I’m not taking care of another one! One man in my lifetime is enough for me!” and they all laughed in unison.
When I explain that the concept of marriage hasn’t historically been attractive to me, they ask questions, sincerely wondering how anyone could feel this way. I simply explain that I really don’t know any happily married people. They say, “people nowadays expect too much.”, and then they move on to another topic.
When they ask about whoever my boyfriend may be at that time, and I make some kind of unenthusiastic facial expression, they’re quick to get to the bottom of the story. If the cause of the disillusionment on my part is something that they find to be even remotely intolerable, they evoke the wisdom of their many years of “marital bliss” and say, “find someone else, honey”.
As I watched them do plia’s in the therapy pool and talking about the latest mystery novel they’re reading, I was breathless at their collective confidence and certainty. I stared at them in total awe. These women were mothers, wives, sisters and friends. They are allies, counselors, advisors and matriarchs. Some of them had been home-makers, and others had careers, which was not necessarily “en vogue” in their time.
They care genuinely about the health and wellness of their classmates and look forward to each 10 o’ clock class, enthusiastically awaiting the arrival of their friends. They take turns bringing in “get well” cards for classmates who are in the hospital or at home resting after a procedure.
As I’ve closely observed “the water babies” as I like to call them, I’ve learned so much about life, love and loyalty. I’ve learned about the pride that comes with being a woman and a lady, and I’m no lady – but, hell, I guess I could try...
I’ve given much thought to health, wellness, and self-care in my short 28 years. I’ve learned that good health is a gift that you give to yourself. I had always been independent. I had always had a strong desire to take care of myself and live my life on my terms. I was never going to be a candidate for putting others needs before my own, at the risk of my health, but what I hadn’t realized was that self-care comes from self-love, and that can only be learned in time.
Self-love is about confidence and security. It’s an air of boldness, courage, an investment with infinite returns. It’s making a space for yourself, even if it’s just one hour a day of aqua aerobics while your family and health concerns swirl around you. Self-love was the mark of true adulthood, though sadly, many people never will actualize it.
I realized that I had become a grown-up when I watched the water babies and accepted them as they were, without shallow judgments about their bodies, bathing suits, or books they read. I realized that I had become a grown up when I learned that there was so much that I didn’t know, and that I was incredibly fortunate to be learning from these glorious women twice a week. I was a grown up when I realized that I was not their teacher, I, too, was a student, eager to learn from their many years of experience and grace.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Grocery Rampage
It started innocently enough. She ambled through the produce section of a large, notable, and cultish, natural foods store. Near the navel oranges, she pulled a plastic produce bag off the roll and walked towards the wicker basket full of organic cheesy snacks, resembling Cheetos. She tossed aside the pair of black plastic tongs, and grabbed a fist full of powdery goodness with her bare hands, looked over her shoulder, and then stuffed them into the produce bag.From there, she scooted over to the grocery end cap where she found another similarly sized wicker basket. This particular basket had “tiny bite” brownies, which were cut up into quarters, and were now mostly brownie dust. She once again discarded the tongs and snatched up a fistful of dust. Into the bag went the dust, which intermingled with the store-brand cheesy treats.
Next it was onto the olive bar. Since the olives were drenched in brine, she had no choice except to use the spoon provided for service. Tasting one olive is considered to be a sample. Spooning a heap of them into the sample strata inside the produce bag is considered theft.What are Kalamata’s without cheese? Any gourmand knows that you cannot enjoy olives without the proper cheese. Luckily, the specialty department had cubed up some Drunken Goat, placed them into a domed dish, and put them out for sample. Toothpicks be damned; the fist tactic must be her method of choice.
Today was a light day at the high-end market, with not as many samples to be had as usual, the woman closed her produce bag and walked out. I watched her as she moved through the crosswalk, in front of an oncoming car. She used her key fob to open the door of her Escalade.In February, this particular location of the specialty chain celebrated its fifth birthday. I decorated about 500 cupcakes to build a giant cake for the celebration. Up to my eyeballs in butter cream and all natural food coloring, I toiled for hours in the bakery, listening to Bob Marley as I swirled pastel deliciousness over the tops of these little cakes. It took 3 days to decorate the cupcakes and build the final display. The day of the big celebration came. The store was decked out with balloons and streamers. The team members were all wearing birthday hats. My store team leader and I stood back and admired my cake. Suddenly we noticed this woman who walked up, grabbed 4 cupcakes off the display and shoved them into her Gucci handbag. My boss ran up to her and said, “Hey! This is our birthday, not yours!”. I watched in horror as I was sure that a scuffle was about to break out in front of the juice bar.
The day before Thanksgiving, I found myself working down on the sales floor, attending to the Holiday Table. This is the one-stop shop for customers who wanted to order their holiday meals to be reheated in their ovens at home, instead of making it all themselves. A man of about the age of 50 walked up, told me his name and said he was there to pick up his turkey.My co-worker went to retrieve his order, and came back with a 16 pound, organic, free-range specimen of perfection. He examined it and accused her of giving him a previously frozen turkey, when what he ordered was fresh. She politely explained to him that it was most definitely fresh, and an argument ensued. He started to walk away, then, turned on his heels and hurled the bird at her, hitting her square in the chest. It knocked the wind out of her. He had to be escorted out of the store.
I’ve seen fights break out over 1” cubes of natural hotdogs and a quarter of a mini bagel pizza with square bits of cheese.I’ve seen women in full-length mink coats scrap over a two ounce cup of free coffee. People will do anything, and I do mean, anything, for free food.There’s something so animalistic about it. It’s completely rogue.
I used to be professional pastry chef, working quietly and relatively peacefully in my bakeshop, with only my radio to keep me company. Isolated from the public, I naivelybelieved that food made people happy.In my little world, I decorated miniature birthday cakes and hand-crafted confections for a couple celebrating their 25th anniversary. My job was to bring a sense of decadence and celebration into the lives of the people who sat in the dining room, just outside my kitchen.
When I decided to expand my horizons into marketing for a large natural grocer, I learned about the dark side of humanity. It seemed that in these cases, food brought out the most primal characteristics in people. Samples at a grocery store were causing people to act from their basest instincts.I can understand people being trampled at a UN rice drop, but scratching and fighting for a chocolate covered coffee bean in West Bloomfield, Michigan is something that mystifies and depresses me.
As a student of human behavior, I’ve learned that this is not about the food. Sadly, this is a commentary on the state of the American entitlement mentality. More for me, none for you. Greed, thoughtlessness, and consumption. No manners. No etiquette. No perspective. No appreciation. Not to mention, completely and shockingly unsanitary!These people weren’t just thoughtless in the aisles of our grocery store. They were thoughtless and selfish everywhere they went. They were the people who screamed at their children while waiting in line to have their photo taken with Santa. They were the people who fought over a Wii while “Joy to the World” boisterously belted through the store’s overhead speaker system. They were the people who drove 40 miles per hour through the busy grocery parking lot, then slamming on the breaks to curse out a pedestrian who dared to enter the crosswalk.
It’s been said that food is a symbol for things greater than itself. Food and its preparation, intake, and associations is seldom a stand-alone issue. For some, it brings comfort, for others, it stirs the warm pot of a lifetime of memories, for others it fills a void. It brings celebration and joyfulness. In some, it brings obsession and pain. Food, even in its simplest form is never just about food.The next time you’re at a big box warehouse or your neighborhood grocery, stand back and watch the humanity unfold before you, and, please, use the tongs.
Next it was onto the olive bar. Since the olives were drenched in brine, she had no choice except to use the spoon provided for service. Tasting one olive is considered to be a sample. Spooning a heap of them into the sample strata inside the produce bag is considered theft.What are Kalamata’s without cheese? Any gourmand knows that you cannot enjoy olives without the proper cheese. Luckily, the specialty department had cubed up some Drunken Goat, placed them into a domed dish, and put them out for sample. Toothpicks be damned; the fist tactic must be her method of choice.
Today was a light day at the high-end market, with not as many samples to be had as usual, the woman closed her produce bag and walked out. I watched her as she moved through the crosswalk, in front of an oncoming car. She used her key fob to open the door of her Escalade.In February, this particular location of the specialty chain celebrated its fifth birthday. I decorated about 500 cupcakes to build a giant cake for the celebration. Up to my eyeballs in butter cream and all natural food coloring, I toiled for hours in the bakery, listening to Bob Marley as I swirled pastel deliciousness over the tops of these little cakes. It took 3 days to decorate the cupcakes and build the final display. The day of the big celebration came. The store was decked out with balloons and streamers. The team members were all wearing birthday hats. My store team leader and I stood back and admired my cake. Suddenly we noticed this woman who walked up, grabbed 4 cupcakes off the display and shoved them into her Gucci handbag. My boss ran up to her and said, “Hey! This is our birthday, not yours!”. I watched in horror as I was sure that a scuffle was about to break out in front of the juice bar.
The day before Thanksgiving, I found myself working down on the sales floor, attending to the Holiday Table. This is the one-stop shop for customers who wanted to order their holiday meals to be reheated in their ovens at home, instead of making it all themselves. A man of about the age of 50 walked up, told me his name and said he was there to pick up his turkey.My co-worker went to retrieve his order, and came back with a 16 pound, organic, free-range specimen of perfection. He examined it and accused her of giving him a previously frozen turkey, when what he ordered was fresh. She politely explained to him that it was most definitely fresh, and an argument ensued. He started to walk away, then, turned on his heels and hurled the bird at her, hitting her square in the chest. It knocked the wind out of her. He had to be escorted out of the store.
I’ve seen fights break out over 1” cubes of natural hotdogs and a quarter of a mini bagel pizza with square bits of cheese.I’ve seen women in full-length mink coats scrap over a two ounce cup of free coffee. People will do anything, and I do mean, anything, for free food.There’s something so animalistic about it. It’s completely rogue.
I used to be professional pastry chef, working quietly and relatively peacefully in my bakeshop, with only my radio to keep me company. Isolated from the public, I naivelybelieved that food made people happy.In my little world, I decorated miniature birthday cakes and hand-crafted confections for a couple celebrating their 25th anniversary. My job was to bring a sense of decadence and celebration into the lives of the people who sat in the dining room, just outside my kitchen.
When I decided to expand my horizons into marketing for a large natural grocer, I learned about the dark side of humanity. It seemed that in these cases, food brought out the most primal characteristics in people. Samples at a grocery store were causing people to act from their basest instincts.I can understand people being trampled at a UN rice drop, but scratching and fighting for a chocolate covered coffee bean in West Bloomfield, Michigan is something that mystifies and depresses me.
As a student of human behavior, I’ve learned that this is not about the food. Sadly, this is a commentary on the state of the American entitlement mentality. More for me, none for you. Greed, thoughtlessness, and consumption. No manners. No etiquette. No perspective. No appreciation. Not to mention, completely and shockingly unsanitary!These people weren’t just thoughtless in the aisles of our grocery store. They were thoughtless and selfish everywhere they went. They were the people who screamed at their children while waiting in line to have their photo taken with Santa. They were the people who fought over a Wii while “Joy to the World” boisterously belted through the store’s overhead speaker system. They were the people who drove 40 miles per hour through the busy grocery parking lot, then slamming on the breaks to curse out a pedestrian who dared to enter the crosswalk.
It’s been said that food is a symbol for things greater than itself. Food and its preparation, intake, and associations is seldom a stand-alone issue. For some, it brings comfort, for others, it stirs the warm pot of a lifetime of memories, for others it fills a void. It brings celebration and joyfulness. In some, it brings obsession and pain. Food, even in its simplest form is never just about food.The next time you’re at a big box warehouse or your neighborhood grocery, stand back and watch the humanity unfold before you, and, please, use the tongs.
Celeb Chefs
Welcome to the post-Food Network kitchen where everyone is an expert and everyone’s a chef. Media types clamor for comment, leads, recipes and a fresh face. The Food Network has been an ally and a nemesis. Its inception has seemingly done more to promote and also to implode our industry. Because of the Food Network our status in the socioeconomic arena has been elevated from drug addicted and recently incarcerated to brilliant artist and part time rock star.Top Chef, Iron Chef, The Next Food Network Star – none of these shows paint our industry in an accurate light. Like it or not, we have become not chefs, but entertainers.
People always ask me if I watch these shows, and up until last month I hadn’t. I generally answer their question this way, “What do you do for a living?” They say, “I’m lawyer”, or “I work for UPS”. Then I say, “Oh, so I bet you go home after a long day and watch reruns of King of Queens and Allie McBeal”.The impact of this new phenomenon hadn’t occurred to me until I taught a class last week where one of my students said, “so it really doesn’t get done in 30 minutes?”Incredulous, I declared, “NO!”
I drove home that night and her question haunted me – the sheer obliviousness was more than just ignorance. She has only been exposed to our industry based on what she sees on television or what she reads in YUMMO Weekly – or whatever Rachel Ray’s magazine is called. How could I fault her for the misinformation she has been fed, and washed down with EVOO?Then it dawned on me – how many career changers, high school graduates and foodies have flooded our culinary schools because of that same premise?
I know whereof I tread…this is and uncomfortable subject. Our schools are sacred places of learning and skill development. The question remains – how many students have entered culinary school under the guise of the 30 minute meal? If they’ve never worked in a professional kitchen before, they don’t know the plight of the 50 hour work week (if you have a light gig), the oftentimes low pay, absence of employer provided health insurance, and the calluses from peeling umpteen cases of potatoes.Many of them have asked me for jobs. When I explain the pay rate, I get a blank stare. Someone just asked me for $25 an hour, plus a $30 bonus for the fifth hour to ASSIST in a cooking class! They want to know why they can’t sit down while they work, and why they don’t get vacation. These people, who haven’t even graduated from culinary school, have a really skewed perception of the reality of our industry; and I have to ask how they came to think this way.
There used to be a time when what we did really mattered because we took pride in our vocation. There used to be a time when the Masters were the Masters, and what they taught us meant something. There used to be a time when you respected what people had to teach you. I remember when my mentor would walk by me as I decorated cakes and say, “If you can’t write with a pencil, you can’t write with a pastry bag”. That kind of “motivation” isn’t acceptable anymore! Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an advocate for verbal lashings and overly aggressive admonitions. What I am saying is that we have to examine where we’ve been and where we’re going; and we need to be strong enough to stay the course.
We are at a very important crossroads in our industry. Who will be the next generation of people to lead us where we need to go? Who will be articulate, professional, business savvy, and committed to the pursuit of excellence?We are on the cusp of some very important changes in our industry. Let’s tell our story and not aim to become sound bites or 90 second clips. Let’s not be led by the media; instead, let’s take control and lead them where we want them to go. No one can tell our story better than we can. Let’s set our standards and stick to them, instead of being pulled under the tidal wave of food as shallow entertainment.
People always ask me if I watch these shows, and up until last month I hadn’t. I generally answer their question this way, “What do you do for a living?” They say, “I’m lawyer”, or “I work for UPS”. Then I say, “Oh, so I bet you go home after a long day and watch reruns of King of Queens and Allie McBeal”.The impact of this new phenomenon hadn’t occurred to me until I taught a class last week where one of my students said, “so it really doesn’t get done in 30 minutes?”Incredulous, I declared, “NO!”
I drove home that night and her question haunted me – the sheer obliviousness was more than just ignorance. She has only been exposed to our industry based on what she sees on television or what she reads in YUMMO Weekly – or whatever Rachel Ray’s magazine is called. How could I fault her for the misinformation she has been fed, and washed down with EVOO?Then it dawned on me – how many career changers, high school graduates and foodies have flooded our culinary schools because of that same premise?
I know whereof I tread…this is and uncomfortable subject. Our schools are sacred places of learning and skill development. The question remains – how many students have entered culinary school under the guise of the 30 minute meal? If they’ve never worked in a professional kitchen before, they don’t know the plight of the 50 hour work week (if you have a light gig), the oftentimes low pay, absence of employer provided health insurance, and the calluses from peeling umpteen cases of potatoes.Many of them have asked me for jobs. When I explain the pay rate, I get a blank stare. Someone just asked me for $25 an hour, plus a $30 bonus for the fifth hour to ASSIST in a cooking class! They want to know why they can’t sit down while they work, and why they don’t get vacation. These people, who haven’t even graduated from culinary school, have a really skewed perception of the reality of our industry; and I have to ask how they came to think this way.
There used to be a time when what we did really mattered because we took pride in our vocation. There used to be a time when the Masters were the Masters, and what they taught us meant something. There used to be a time when you respected what people had to teach you. I remember when my mentor would walk by me as I decorated cakes and say, “If you can’t write with a pencil, you can’t write with a pastry bag”. That kind of “motivation” isn’t acceptable anymore! Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an advocate for verbal lashings and overly aggressive admonitions. What I am saying is that we have to examine where we’ve been and where we’re going; and we need to be strong enough to stay the course.
We are at a very important crossroads in our industry. Who will be the next generation of people to lead us where we need to go? Who will be articulate, professional, business savvy, and committed to the pursuit of excellence?We are on the cusp of some very important changes in our industry. Let’s tell our story and not aim to become sound bites or 90 second clips. Let’s not be led by the media; instead, let’s take control and lead them where we want them to go. No one can tell our story better than we can. Let’s set our standards and stick to them, instead of being pulled under the tidal wave of food as shallow entertainment.
America's Top Chefs
often have conversations with my colleagues about the importance of certification. These conversations are usually friendly, still, it is a point of contention, and someone always brings up Thomas Keller.I remember when a few years ago, I would invite one of my co-workers to our meetings and he would say, “I’m not going to hang out at the Chef’s Club for Men”. Proud of his jab, he would smirk and tell me to have a good time without him. I found the statement to be sort of ironic; if anyone may want to refer to the MCCA as “The Chef’s Club for Men”, it would likely be me, the only woman on the board, and one of the few female members.Underneath his remark was a cynical attitude about the issue of certification and its value to an individual in our industry. Lets face it; everyone is always looking at things from this perspective, “what’s in it for me?”
The other day, I was perusing the magazines at a local book store. One particular glossy jumped out from behind Chocolatier. It was called Desserts from America’s Top Chefs. Since my background is primarily pastry, I was curious to see who is considered one of “America’s Top Chefs” and what type of desserts they were making. It’s always good to keep up on the trends, right?I flipped through the pages until I stopped at a “recipe” from Paula Deen; Chocolate Peanut Butter Cupcakes. Clearly, up until this point, I didn’t Paula Deen was now considered one of “America’s Top Chefs”, so I read on in interest. What nugget of insight or expertise did she have that Joe Decker or Chris Northmore, or even Sherry Yard didn’t?The “recipe” was simple, since it only had two ingredients; brownie mix, and peanut butter chips. The “directions” instructed me, America’s Top-Chef-in-training, to follow the directions on the box and add the peanut butter chips.I was totally appalled.
Seeing Paula Deen’s great big southern smile beaming from the pages of this magazine, made me feel sick. She is now, to some who don’t know any better, considered one of “America’s Top Chefs”, whatever that means.To me, this is like taking Dr. McDreamy and putting his gorgeous face on the cover of the American Medical Journal. Sure, there is a slight difference. Dr. McDreamy is an actor, and Paula Deen has made a living running a “successful” restaurant, but I am only being partly facetious.
Two years of culinary school, another year of training with my mentor, and 10 years of experience in professional kitchens does not get you on the cover of Desserts from America’s Top Chefs, so is “chef” just a word in our lexicon with no real meaning?Compare Paula Deen to Thomas Keller, who also isn’t certified by the ACF (do I really have to write anything else in this paragraph than just that first statement). Thomas Keller is a culinary genius who kills his own rabbits out of respect for their life. Thomas Keller has an unwavering commitment to absolute excellence. I am guessing that he would not feel good about opening up a box of chemically treated brownie dust and tossing in some synthetic peanut butter chips, but that’s just a guess.
Even that short exercise in comparisons didn’t clear this murky dishwater, so the question is deeper still. Becoming a Chef, The Reach of a Chef, The Soul of a Chef, and countless other books are dedicated to answering the question; what does it mean to be a chef? I don’t actually think that question can be answered in this article.
While I staunchly support certification and view it to be a necessity to the overall success of our industry (especially since the advent of the Food Network, which was both a blessing and a curse), others heartily disagree.Let me be clear, I have not yet been certified. There are reasons (points/documentation), and excuses (time, even fear of failure), but I will say the time has come; it is my goal for 2009. I feel a responsibility to my mentors, craft, and professional community to be a part of a larger and regulated organization that sets the bar for what is expected in terms of basic ability, skill, and knowledge.
My evidence to support certification is based on the example about Paula Deen.I remember when being a chef was not necessarily considered a noble occupation. I remember when working in a professional kitchen made people wonder if you were a drug addict, alcoholic, ex-convict, or just simply not very bright.Now, that image is changing, and I would like to think it is because of the role certification plays in this drama we call the restaurant business. I would like to think it is because of the fine men and women who follow the Culinarian’s Code, sharing their sage knowledge with their apprentices, students, and employees.
I would like to think it is because of the Randy Smiths and countless other chefs in our own chapter who make this moniker a title with value.As we approach a new year, I am confident that many of us will be setting goals for ourselves and our employees. Why not start by renewing your certification, or tackling the challenge for the first time? Lets be a chapter with a record number of certified chefs and culinarians, setting the bar for excellence in our kitchens and industry in 2009 and many years to come.
The other day, I was perusing the magazines at a local book store. One particular glossy jumped out from behind Chocolatier. It was called Desserts from America’s Top Chefs. Since my background is primarily pastry, I was curious to see who is considered one of “America’s Top Chefs” and what type of desserts they were making. It’s always good to keep up on the trends, right?I flipped through the pages until I stopped at a “recipe” from Paula Deen; Chocolate Peanut Butter Cupcakes. Clearly, up until this point, I didn’t Paula Deen was now considered one of “America’s Top Chefs”, so I read on in interest. What nugget of insight or expertise did she have that Joe Decker or Chris Northmore, or even Sherry Yard didn’t?The “recipe” was simple, since it only had two ingredients; brownie mix, and peanut butter chips. The “directions” instructed me, America’s Top-Chef-in-training, to follow the directions on the box and add the peanut butter chips.I was totally appalled.
Seeing Paula Deen’s great big southern smile beaming from the pages of this magazine, made me feel sick. She is now, to some who don’t know any better, considered one of “America’s Top Chefs”, whatever that means.To me, this is like taking Dr. McDreamy and putting his gorgeous face on the cover of the American Medical Journal. Sure, there is a slight difference. Dr. McDreamy is an actor, and Paula Deen has made a living running a “successful” restaurant, but I am only being partly facetious.
Two years of culinary school, another year of training with my mentor, and 10 years of experience in professional kitchens does not get you on the cover of Desserts from America’s Top Chefs, so is “chef” just a word in our lexicon with no real meaning?Compare Paula Deen to Thomas Keller, who also isn’t certified by the ACF (do I really have to write anything else in this paragraph than just that first statement). Thomas Keller is a culinary genius who kills his own rabbits out of respect for their life. Thomas Keller has an unwavering commitment to absolute excellence. I am guessing that he would not feel good about opening up a box of chemically treated brownie dust and tossing in some synthetic peanut butter chips, but that’s just a guess.
Even that short exercise in comparisons didn’t clear this murky dishwater, so the question is deeper still. Becoming a Chef, The Reach of a Chef, The Soul of a Chef, and countless other books are dedicated to answering the question; what does it mean to be a chef? I don’t actually think that question can be answered in this article.
While I staunchly support certification and view it to be a necessity to the overall success of our industry (especially since the advent of the Food Network, which was both a blessing and a curse), others heartily disagree.Let me be clear, I have not yet been certified. There are reasons (points/documentation), and excuses (time, even fear of failure), but I will say the time has come; it is my goal for 2009. I feel a responsibility to my mentors, craft, and professional community to be a part of a larger and regulated organization that sets the bar for what is expected in terms of basic ability, skill, and knowledge.
My evidence to support certification is based on the example about Paula Deen.I remember when being a chef was not necessarily considered a noble occupation. I remember when working in a professional kitchen made people wonder if you were a drug addict, alcoholic, ex-convict, or just simply not very bright.Now, that image is changing, and I would like to think it is because of the role certification plays in this drama we call the restaurant business. I would like to think it is because of the fine men and women who follow the Culinarian’s Code, sharing their sage knowledge with their apprentices, students, and employees.
I would like to think it is because of the Randy Smiths and countless other chefs in our own chapter who make this moniker a title with value.As we approach a new year, I am confident that many of us will be setting goals for ourselves and our employees. Why not start by renewing your certification, or tackling the challenge for the first time? Lets be a chapter with a record number of certified chefs and culinarians, setting the bar for excellence in our kitchens and industry in 2009 and many years to come.
Kitchen Confidential Book Review - Throw Back to MU 2001
Anthony Bourdain, a celebrity chef from New York, relives his exciting, disgusting and somewhat criminal climb to the top. Once a lowly dishwasher, Bourdain got his break as a cook by accident, an experience similar to countless chefs in the industry. Aimless, bitter and close to eviction, the restaurant industry offered what a lot ofyoung guys are looking for: drugs, waitresses, and free booze. When a sauté cook failed to show up for his shift, Bourdain was nabbed out of the dishtank and dropped behind a Garland range. This is where the adventure began. Like the majority of cooks in the industry, job-hopping is nothing out of the ordinary. Bourdain’s travels took him to numerous establishments and none of them, like most restaurants, were that different from the last. Wherever you go, there is always a “supplier” (dealer), always a “five o’clock special” (a practice of getting high under hood vents or walk in coolers at five o’clock) and a lot of casual sex. There are a lot of bullies, an infinite number of amateur restaurateurs and know-it-all culinary students, not to mention, a lot of attitude.Kitchens and their “meal technicians” are not known for their cleanliness, wholesomeness, reliability or intelligence. Kitchens aren’t think tanks, science labs, or academic facilities. Chefs aren’t known as public speakers, let alone authors. Kitchens are one of those places that are usually staffed by transient workers and convicts.Did you ever wonder if your breadbasket made its first debut at another table? Bourdain has the answer to that, ‘I will eat bread in restaurants, even if I know it’s probably been recycled off someone else’s’ table. I’m sure that some restaurants explicitly instruct their Bengali busboys to throw out all that unused bread-which amounts to about fifty percent-and maybe some places actually do it. But when it’s busy and the busboy is crumbing tables, emptying ashtrays, refilling water glasses, and hustling dirty dishes back to the dishwasher-and he sees a basket full of untouched bread- most times, he’s going to use it. This is a fact of life. It doesn’t bother me, and shouldn’t surprise you”. Enough said.The stories are never-ending and more appalling as they progress. I hated this book, and the reason I hated it is because everything in it is true.As a working pastry chef and culinary school graduate, I can attest to the accuracy of this utterly coarse text. What angers me is that I am in the minority. I am amoung a handfull of cooks who don’t party, drink or smoke. I rarely meet any other ‘professionals” in my field who act professionally. I am sick of the stigma and the waste of talent that I run into on a daily basis. I have worked for and with some of the most brilliant people I have ever met, and they subscribe to the most depraved and revolting moral codes I have ever seen. Perhaps with the population demanding food as entertainment, and a growing number of sophisticated patrons, discipline will once again be introduced into the professional kitchen. Until then, if you want “clean” food, avoid special orders, well-done meat, and, of course, the breadbasket
First Published in Michigan Sports & Fitness
When I first began my career in the culinary world, I took a job at a local restaurant of prestige as a garde manger, or, in layman’s terms, a salad maker.The job description for this inauspicious entry-level position usually entails making appetizers to order, tossing salads and plating desserts. As with any restaurant job, this position required a lot of prep for what we call mise en place, to ensure that the station was ready to go at service time.Part of my prep responsibilities included picking bags and bags of spinach. Taking the stems off of every single leaf, making certain not to miss even one. “See this,” my chef would say as he held up a leaf, which eluded my inspection, “That is an unhappy customer.” “Yes, chef.” The only two words a cook needs to know.
Picking spinach, in case you’ve never done it before, is boring. Speed in the kitchen is essential; it’s the mark of a good culinarian. We chefs hurry everywhere we go. We race around the grocery store as if we are contestants on that grocery game show. We run from our cars to the door of every establishment we patronize. Time is always of the essence.Unfortunately, there aren’t many chefs who run for recreation, it’s sad, they’d be setting new PR’s all the time.As I picked bag after bag, I would try to pick the next bag faster than I picked the last. I figured out that it took me the same time to pick 3 full bags of spinach, as it would take me to run 3 miles.
People always ask me why I get up so early just to go work out. They look at me quizzically when I explain that I actually enjoy it. One time, I laced up my New Balances and headed out in our first heavy snow fall after a 12 hour day, with more work waiting for me when I got back. The dining room manager looked at me in disbelief, took a drag of his cigarette and said, “They’re right, you are crazy.”I smiled and noted that I was taking my non-smoking break and I’d be back later.They laugh at me when I track my mileage on a map of Michigan that I keep on my bulletin board for motivation. They want to know why I don’t run to some place warm instead of always heading to the U.P.Many insist that I’m running from something, they want to know what it is. They ask me what the most amazing thing has ever happened to me on one of my runs, or if I’ve ever seen anyone famous or met anyone important.
It’s true, when I started running, I was running away. I was running from job stress, school deadlines, failed romances. Broken hearted, I logged many miles. I ran away from an eating disorder, which almost ruined my career. I ran for comfort. And, I joked, it’s cheaper than therapy.Now, as I become more passionate about healthful living and feel the responsibility as a food professional to raise the bar of education in my industry. I point out that I run from heart disease, obesity and the effects of a sedentary lifestyle.
The most amazing thing that has ever happened to me on a run isn’t the day that I logged an insane amount of miles on a treadmill, or the days I was chased by my neighbors nasty dog, or the time I ran out way too far in a rural part of town and wasn’t sure if I was going to make it back.No, the most amazing thing was the day I realized that I don’t have to apologize for my running or make excuses or offer explanations about why my running wardrobe is larger than my regular wardrobe, and gets much more wear.The answer to the last question isn’t what people expect to hear. I don’t know if they imagine me toeing the starting line of some obscure 5 K next to P. Diddy or George W. Bush.The most important person that I’ve ever met on one of my runs is me.
Running shows you and anyone else who’s watching who you are and what you value. Am I disciplined? Look at my log. Do I prioritize in my life? I don’t hit the snooze. Do I have integrity? Am I determined? Do I know what commitment means? These are all questions that are answered every time I head out the door.I’ve progressed in my career, and I don’t have to pick spinach anymore, unless I’m feeling generous and decide to help a friend. Over the years, I’ve become a much better runner, though I find myself struggling to exceed my spinach-picking PR.
Picking spinach, in case you’ve never done it before, is boring. Speed in the kitchen is essential; it’s the mark of a good culinarian. We chefs hurry everywhere we go. We race around the grocery store as if we are contestants on that grocery game show. We run from our cars to the door of every establishment we patronize. Time is always of the essence.Unfortunately, there aren’t many chefs who run for recreation, it’s sad, they’d be setting new PR’s all the time.As I picked bag after bag, I would try to pick the next bag faster than I picked the last. I figured out that it took me the same time to pick 3 full bags of spinach, as it would take me to run 3 miles.
People always ask me why I get up so early just to go work out. They look at me quizzically when I explain that I actually enjoy it. One time, I laced up my New Balances and headed out in our first heavy snow fall after a 12 hour day, with more work waiting for me when I got back. The dining room manager looked at me in disbelief, took a drag of his cigarette and said, “They’re right, you are crazy.”I smiled and noted that I was taking my non-smoking break and I’d be back later.They laugh at me when I track my mileage on a map of Michigan that I keep on my bulletin board for motivation. They want to know why I don’t run to some place warm instead of always heading to the U.P.Many insist that I’m running from something, they want to know what it is. They ask me what the most amazing thing has ever happened to me on one of my runs, or if I’ve ever seen anyone famous or met anyone important.
It’s true, when I started running, I was running away. I was running from job stress, school deadlines, failed romances. Broken hearted, I logged many miles. I ran away from an eating disorder, which almost ruined my career. I ran for comfort. And, I joked, it’s cheaper than therapy.Now, as I become more passionate about healthful living and feel the responsibility as a food professional to raise the bar of education in my industry. I point out that I run from heart disease, obesity and the effects of a sedentary lifestyle.
The most amazing thing that has ever happened to me on a run isn’t the day that I logged an insane amount of miles on a treadmill, or the days I was chased by my neighbors nasty dog, or the time I ran out way too far in a rural part of town and wasn’t sure if I was going to make it back.No, the most amazing thing was the day I realized that I don’t have to apologize for my running or make excuses or offer explanations about why my running wardrobe is larger than my regular wardrobe, and gets much more wear.The answer to the last question isn’t what people expect to hear. I don’t know if they imagine me toeing the starting line of some obscure 5 K next to P. Diddy or George W. Bush.The most important person that I’ve ever met on one of my runs is me.
Running shows you and anyone else who’s watching who you are and what you value. Am I disciplined? Look at my log. Do I prioritize in my life? I don’t hit the snooze. Do I have integrity? Am I determined? Do I know what commitment means? These are all questions that are answered every time I head out the door.I’ve progressed in my career, and I don’t have to pick spinach anymore, unless I’m feeling generous and decide to help a friend. Over the years, I’ve become a much better runner, though I find myself struggling to exceed my spinach-picking PR.
Target
My first mistake was trying to go to Target on Saturday. Have you ever been to Target on Saturday? I apologize if that seems to be a stupid question, but in my line of work, Saturday errand running is not exactly an option.
As soon as I drove into the parking lot, I should have known, and should’ve promptly turned around. It seemed like hundreds of cars were zooming around the parking lot, slamming on the brakes and inching along as they stalked the closest parking spot. Like a cheetah hunting a gazelle, Windstar minivans slowly crept through the tight aisles until they SLAMMED on the gas to whip into the spot just vacated by another vehicle.
Mothers and children were ambling through the rows of cars, haphazardly making their way to the entrance. “She should really put a leash on that one; it’s dangerous out here….” I thought to myself. ‘If I had one of those, it would totally be on a leash….”
Inside, I was amazed by the swarms of people, and all of them, and I mean ALL of them, seeming not to have anywhere else in the world that they needed to be after they collected their Rubbermade tubs, hula hoops, flash drives and Vicks Vapo-Rub.
I, on the other hand, had lots of places to be after I snatched up my Coke Zero, Post-it Notes, binder clips, bathing suit, and birthday card. It didn’t take long to notice that I was the only person walking quickly and in a straight line. Post-it Notes, check. Bathing suit, check. Binder Clips, yes. Birthday card…check. ‘Zero’! It’s on sale!
As I zoomed over to where the ‘Zero’ was, I came upon a woman who had parked her shopping cart diagonally in the aisle. Her screaming toddler’s wailing was going, apparently, unnoticed (by her), as he flailed about in the enormous red basket. Annoyed that she would assume that she is the only person who may have a need for granola bars, I barked out a pointed, but clear, “BEHIND YOU”.
Oh my god.
The look.
We were like an explorer and a native of some lost tribe, discovering the other, and then staring quizzically, perplexed by this mysterious person staring right back.
It was in that moment that I remembered that “on the outside”, people say, “excuse me”. I was not wielding a chef’s knife or a hot roasting pan…I was just tying to get to the ‘Zero’. The problem is this; civilians are not accustomed to being notified by your nearness with an abrupt announcement. They are much more comfortable with such niceties like, “pardon me”, or, “I’m sorry; could I just sneak past you?” all uttered in a very sheepish tenor, with eyes fixated on the floor.
There is generally nothing ‘sheepish’ about me, and nothing sheepish about any other chefs I know. Proud, assertive, hurried, and confident, we have places to go and not very much time to get there. Time wasting, dawdling, and moseying about is not tolerated in a professional kitchen. Wandering is an indicator of uselessness and inferiority. A cook who casually strolls to and fro in your kitchen has about a 3 day expiration date before the pack forces him out.
Likewise, in a kitchen, you would never sprawl out everywhere, with all of your tools, ingredients, and recipes strewn about. Being able to work in a tight, sometimes unreasonably small space is the mark of flexibility, efficiency, and resourcefulness. A chef would never park his or her shopping cart diagonally in the aisle of any store.
Nor would a chef walk around, seemingly unaware of their whereabouts, and the proximity of other people around them, looking genuinely surprised when another person crossed their path; and by ‘path’, I mean, their transverse meandering through a common walkway, pushing a shopping cart and looking everywhere except straight ahead.
So, there we were, staring at each other, almost daring the other to push this just a little further. The woman snapped up her Nutrigrain bars and pushed her cart, as I passed silent judgment on her for buying such inferior, chemically-laced foodstuffs made in some factory by someone wearing a hairnet and lab coat. She muttered something under her breath as she continued her shopping elsewhere in the aisles of the bustling store.
Judgment reciprocated.
Her toddler was still screaming. I could sense that she had moved over to the electronics, based on the dullness of his shrill cries. Maybe she will buy a GPS to show her where she was going, and objects surrounding her. Jeez, do they make those like a pedometer – something she could strap to her shoe? That would be nice… I wondered if he screamed at such a decibel that she was unable to hear, much like dogs have that heightened sense of hearing on the opposite end of the spectrum.
I strolled up to the Zero, shaking my head. I wondered what it was like to be this unaware, this isolated. My god, what a gift that would be… the ability to totally zone out and go through life unfettered by the various incidents and people around you. Total and complete ignorance, aware only of what it right in front of you at any moment. I can’t even conceive of it.
Intensity is a trait I’ve long possessed. As I child I was quite focused. As an adult I persist in my tightly wound ways. Deliberate actions, effort guided by thought, I move through life with a sense of high-strung ambition. There is an annoyingly strong pull about my energy, as well as an annoyingly strong resistance to the flow of those lesser intense people around me.
“See, Stac - your standards are just too high…” or my other favorite, “you think too much”. Two, count them, TWO of my former employers have said those unthinkable words to me. And I thought I was coasting. Shit.
Contemplation. Thought. Effort. Painstaking measures. There is always a reason for absolutely everything that I do. Nothing that I do is arbitrary, nothing is an afterthought. Relentless. Driven. Always chasing something. Nothing is good enough. Ever. Even this column has taken me 3 months to finish, and, it still isn’t right.
To be a chef, you have to be a risk taker. You have to be confident. You have to be bold.
You have to be your own unstoppable force. There has to be something that throbs deep inside you, the pulsating creativity and brilliance of making beautiful order out of total chaos.
It might seem a little extreme, and, maybe it is. But I don’t find it to be all that uncommon. The chef as a professional is the embodiment of passion. Some people were wired to be engineers, born with the critical thinking skills that make them successful at solving the riddles of the modern world. Others seem to have been born with the language skills of the great orators of the ages. Sometimes, you just can’t separate yourself from who you really are, even if you’re at Target.
As soon as I drove into the parking lot, I should have known, and should’ve promptly turned around. It seemed like hundreds of cars were zooming around the parking lot, slamming on the brakes and inching along as they stalked the closest parking spot. Like a cheetah hunting a gazelle, Windstar minivans slowly crept through the tight aisles until they SLAMMED on the gas to whip into the spot just vacated by another vehicle.
Mothers and children were ambling through the rows of cars, haphazardly making their way to the entrance. “She should really put a leash on that one; it’s dangerous out here….” I thought to myself. ‘If I had one of those, it would totally be on a leash….”
Inside, I was amazed by the swarms of people, and all of them, and I mean ALL of them, seeming not to have anywhere else in the world that they needed to be after they collected their Rubbermade tubs, hula hoops, flash drives and Vicks Vapo-Rub.
I, on the other hand, had lots of places to be after I snatched up my Coke Zero, Post-it Notes, binder clips, bathing suit, and birthday card. It didn’t take long to notice that I was the only person walking quickly and in a straight line. Post-it Notes, check. Bathing suit, check. Binder Clips, yes. Birthday card…check. ‘Zero’! It’s on sale!
As I zoomed over to where the ‘Zero’ was, I came upon a woman who had parked her shopping cart diagonally in the aisle. Her screaming toddler’s wailing was going, apparently, unnoticed (by her), as he flailed about in the enormous red basket. Annoyed that she would assume that she is the only person who may have a need for granola bars, I barked out a pointed, but clear, “BEHIND YOU”.
Oh my god.
The look.
We were like an explorer and a native of some lost tribe, discovering the other, and then staring quizzically, perplexed by this mysterious person staring right back.
It was in that moment that I remembered that “on the outside”, people say, “excuse me”. I was not wielding a chef’s knife or a hot roasting pan…I was just tying to get to the ‘Zero’. The problem is this; civilians are not accustomed to being notified by your nearness with an abrupt announcement. They are much more comfortable with such niceties like, “pardon me”, or, “I’m sorry; could I just sneak past you?” all uttered in a very sheepish tenor, with eyes fixated on the floor.
There is generally nothing ‘sheepish’ about me, and nothing sheepish about any other chefs I know. Proud, assertive, hurried, and confident, we have places to go and not very much time to get there. Time wasting, dawdling, and moseying about is not tolerated in a professional kitchen. Wandering is an indicator of uselessness and inferiority. A cook who casually strolls to and fro in your kitchen has about a 3 day expiration date before the pack forces him out.
Likewise, in a kitchen, you would never sprawl out everywhere, with all of your tools, ingredients, and recipes strewn about. Being able to work in a tight, sometimes unreasonably small space is the mark of flexibility, efficiency, and resourcefulness. A chef would never park his or her shopping cart diagonally in the aisle of any store.
Nor would a chef walk around, seemingly unaware of their whereabouts, and the proximity of other people around them, looking genuinely surprised when another person crossed their path; and by ‘path’, I mean, their transverse meandering through a common walkway, pushing a shopping cart and looking everywhere except straight ahead.
So, there we were, staring at each other, almost daring the other to push this just a little further. The woman snapped up her Nutrigrain bars and pushed her cart, as I passed silent judgment on her for buying such inferior, chemically-laced foodstuffs made in some factory by someone wearing a hairnet and lab coat. She muttered something under her breath as she continued her shopping elsewhere in the aisles of the bustling store.
Judgment reciprocated.
Her toddler was still screaming. I could sense that she had moved over to the electronics, based on the dullness of his shrill cries. Maybe she will buy a GPS to show her where she was going, and objects surrounding her. Jeez, do they make those like a pedometer – something she could strap to her shoe? That would be nice… I wondered if he screamed at such a decibel that she was unable to hear, much like dogs have that heightened sense of hearing on the opposite end of the spectrum.
I strolled up to the Zero, shaking my head. I wondered what it was like to be this unaware, this isolated. My god, what a gift that would be… the ability to totally zone out and go through life unfettered by the various incidents and people around you. Total and complete ignorance, aware only of what it right in front of you at any moment. I can’t even conceive of it.
Intensity is a trait I’ve long possessed. As I child I was quite focused. As an adult I persist in my tightly wound ways. Deliberate actions, effort guided by thought, I move through life with a sense of high-strung ambition. There is an annoyingly strong pull about my energy, as well as an annoyingly strong resistance to the flow of those lesser intense people around me.
“See, Stac - your standards are just too high…” or my other favorite, “you think too much”. Two, count them, TWO of my former employers have said those unthinkable words to me. And I thought I was coasting. Shit.
Contemplation. Thought. Effort. Painstaking measures. There is always a reason for absolutely everything that I do. Nothing that I do is arbitrary, nothing is an afterthought. Relentless. Driven. Always chasing something. Nothing is good enough. Ever. Even this column has taken me 3 months to finish, and, it still isn’t right.
To be a chef, you have to be a risk taker. You have to be confident. You have to be bold.
You have to be your own unstoppable force. There has to be something that throbs deep inside you, the pulsating creativity and brilliance of making beautiful order out of total chaos.
It might seem a little extreme, and, maybe it is. But I don’t find it to be all that uncommon. The chef as a professional is the embodiment of passion. Some people were wired to be engineers, born with the critical thinking skills that make them successful at solving the riddles of the modern world. Others seem to have been born with the language skills of the great orators of the ages. Sometimes, you just can’t separate yourself from who you really are, even if you’re at Target.
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