I wanted to start this by answering some of the comments I didn’t have a chance to respond to.

Susan, I can think of no higher compliment than you taking your time to read through my archives. Thank you.

Kristen, the fact that you left a comment, “Haunting, beautifully so. ” is amazing, especially considering that’s how I feel about your writing.

K, you have been reading from the almost beginning, and I am lucky we found each other. I will hold my father’s letter close to my heart.

Bokker, I am happy to hear that you found me, especially through Thursday.  I appreciate your comment , “Thanks for writing- I know how hard it is to articulate loss, but I think it helps people.” A lot of people have questioned me for speaking out through my writing, but the world is a lonely enough place without thinking there’s no one out there who can relate. Do stop back in if you wish. I’ll put the kettle on.

Josh, I don’t know why woman have a thing for gnarly looking men. I like men to look like they’ve lived. If that involves a bad case of acne and alcoholism, so be it. I’m thinking of Charles Bukowski here. Very handsome man. As for penises, I hate to think men wouldn’t take the extra seconds to wash if they’re not circumcised, but I know better. So I am not going to think about it. Lalalallalalala. Has anyone heard any good songs lately???

***

One more statement about why I choose to write about my father’s suicide and the effects it has had on me: I have seen this from both sides now. I have been that 12 year old child who lost her father and I have been a depressed mother thinking about suicide. My point is this: The pain for the survivors never goes away. The guilt, the feelings that you should have saved the person, loved them better, all still there. For me it has lessened, but it’s in there, and sometimes I feel that sharp pain in my heart, that feeling of not being able to breathe, and it comes back. My Dad gave me life with my mother, and then over and over again in showing me the consequences to families when someone takes their life. I credit my mom for holding us together in the only way she knew how.

***

I have been working the day shift and the night shift. On the day shift they have a meeting every single morning before the restaurant opens. I realize that it is a good time for the kitchen staff and the servers to get together so the specials of the day can be described. The one part that gets more than a bit old is when the managers talk about the wines and beers. The good point of this is we get to sit down for a minute and they offer samples of different drinks so we can try them. The down side is the descriptions of the wines and the beers are so lengthy, including an at depth discussion of food pairings , that I find myself wanting to get back to the kitchen so I can get finished and go home. I would like to offer my services for this part of the morning meeting, even though I do not fit the wine connoisseur label. I would be straight to the point, “This is a Pinot Blanc from California. It is a very dry white wine. Too dry, in fact. (sips water) It is being offered at $9.50 per glass, and they don’t even fill that thing the whole way, can you believe that? You should know what to pair it with, you’ve been working here for months. Otherwise, just let the customer pick, because they’re paying after all.”

Anyway, work is good, even though I am getting bored. I need to make something new. I never want to see another hoagie or hamburger bun for as long as I live. The only thing that looks promising is that I can create artisan bread every week, the flavor is my choice, as long as we have a white and a wheat or rye variety because it looks better on the plates, and the promising thing is it’s pumpkin time. I saw that the cans of pumpkin were in and I hope I will be allowed to create some dessert specials for Fall.  I also have some sweet potato recipes that would work well.

I had my 90 day review, two months late, and got a raise and a lot of kudos. I was also told what I need to improve on. This is the first company I have worked for who has had the official reviews where I have to fill out paperwork listing my strengths and weaknesses. This was way harder than I imagined it would be. I fretted over that stupid paper and even asked my boss if I could punch out, have a beer or two, and then fill out the papers. I was that nervous. Apparently they pay you to fill this shit out so I sat down with a smoke and a coffee and just did it.

This entry isn’t getting any longer, despite my having started it days ago, so I am going to post it and try again soon.

Currently listening to: Joni Mitchell.

You go out for a nice meal. What do you hope to see on the dessert menu? We have been running dessert specials so I am hoping to get some ideas in that will sell well. The chocolate lava cake was a big hit.

Any and all thoughts greatly appreciated.

Thanks to all my readers for such kind wishes. I am so physically exhausted that I’ve felt unable to post even the smallest update. Supposedly this week I am moving on to four ten hour shifts. Hopefully having a three day weekend will give me the rest I need as well as some time to get some other things done that have been waiting. (Hello, grass, yes I do see that you need to be cut.)

The job isn’t bad, as jobs go. I have already learned some new skills, i.e. pretzels and flatbreads, that might serve me well in the future. Either way, I wouldn’t hesitate to try them out at home as they are easy and would be fun to teach my children. Last week I trained on the yeast breads and pizza dough, this week I am supposed to step into training for the desserts, which look easy enough. The one difference is I am working for a restaurant this time instead of a wholesale/retail bakery as I was last time so the focus for the desserts is on the way that they look when plated. I was a bread baker/ pastry chef at a restaurant years ago, until I left in 1991 to give birth to Nathan, so I am not unfamiliar with the process of only baking for in house use.

I have changed a lot over the years. My body is older, of course, but my mind is very different as well. I don’t sweat small stuff, and the big stuff, well, I don’t sweat it much either. When there is a problem I try to fix it and if it can’t be remedied, which is something that needs to be deduced quickly, I start again. It feels strange to be the old baker. I have reached a point, I guess, where the fact that I have been in this industry since the late 80s and I haven’t achieved a managerial position looks suspect, or at worst pathetic. I wrestled with my ego a bit over this fact. I had achieved the status of manager by the age of 18. I gave that up to have my son and then my daughter and I do not regret that decision Alex and I made for me to stay home with our kids until they were older. I understand that option isn’t available to everyone or even desirable for everyone. I am not getting into the SAHM VS. WFHM argument. Every situation is different. We made a lot of sacrifices to ensure that I could stay at home with the kids and although some assumed that we were very wealthy at the time the truth is we were incredibly frugal.

I offered up two suggestions for items, one for a bread, one for a dessert. Both ideas were shot down, one as too expensive, the other as too played out. It stung a little but then I realized that I am not going to let it bother me. If my boss wants input I have a good eye for what will sell. If she asks for assistance when she’s trying to figure out why that certain dough keeps rising over too fast I won’t offer it up again only to be ignored. There’s a lot of ego in this industry. Some people paid big bucks to attend culinary school. I did my apprenticeships on the job, so I was in fact paid to learn. I am not going to look down on those who went to culinary school and if they choose to look down on me that’s cool. We’re making the same amount of money now, so it might make them pause but instead it seems to give an air of quasi superiority that they can enjoy at their leisure.

I am working downtown which is an area that I have been avoiding for the most part since they started a major construction project that has closed streets and detoured sidewalks. As I was telling my friend Cork, I am dangerously close to the large Powell’s book store now. Must avoid after payday.

I am looking forward to having my own income coming in. I only realized later in life that money can equal power in a relationship and while for the most part Alex has been good about sharing his money with me there have been times aplenty when I have felt less than because I had no income. I also felt as if I had less of a say in important financial matters. I am considering getting a dress made of dollar bills to wear around the house, just because it would be cool. Larger bills would be no doubt cooler, but I am not making that much money.

Anyway, thanks to you all. I have some photos waiting to upload and I am looking forward to finding a way to update on a regular basis. This is what I wish I could focus on, my writing, but it’s not in the cards right now.

I am working. They have hired me as we still await the test results of my urine, which seem to be taking forever. This is going to take me a few days to get used to. Thank you all for the kind support. It really means a lot. I am working at a restaurant as a pastry chef/artisan bread baker. I am getting used to never stop restaurant pace once again. My feet hurt, but my mind feels good.

Hopefully I’ll figure real updates into my schedule soon, plus I haven’t forgotten that I promised the conclusion of the Sophie story.

The year was 1982. I was spending the night at my friend Sophie’s house for the first time.

Sophie was pretty much an outsider at the Catholic school we attended. She had arrived in third grade and she soon became the source of cruel child pranks. I stood next to her after gym one day as she cried over her shoes. We were to change into sneakers for gym and then dress shoes for class. Someone had filled her shoes with glue. The snot and tears ran down her face and dripped into the shoes as I awkwardly patted her shoulder. “My Mom is going to kill me.” A few days later word spread that the mom had insisted that the school buy her daughter new shoes. Sophie showed up in shiny brown leather and a smile.

Her mother Terri was 23 and she had three kids: 10 year old Sophie, 3 year old Jolie, and 1 year old Amy. There was no man in sight and the whispers weren’t even hidden behind their backs as Terri roared up to the school to pick up her daughter in an old white Chevy. She emerged from the driver’s seat sleek like a cat with her perfectly feathered hair and flawless figure in skintight jeans and a tube top. She approached the playground with a baby on one hip, a child holding her other hand, a cigarette dangling from her lips and yelled at Sophie to get her ass in the car. I was instantly enthralled and decided right then and there to befriend Sophie.

My plan worked and soon I was invited over for the night.

Her house was wondrous, not in its exterior, but in its contents. Terri raised angora rabbits for show and they had the run of the house. I snuck a quick feel as they hopped by me, immediately sold on the fur as it brushed across my palm. One wall contained the largest fish tank I’d ever seen in a house and while Sophie was giving me the tour of the house she showed me the puppy’s bedroom. They had a bedroom on the main floor with puppies. I wanted to stay in that room, but outside I was led, my animal loving mind going crazy with delight. In the back there were rows and rows of metal cages with rabbits in them. I asked Sophie if these rabbits ran around inside the house too, but she shook her head no and asked me to give her a hand with the carrots. The 50 pound bags were waiting near the hutches and we slipped the carrots through the bars and checked the water levels in each bottle. Sophie told me which bunnies were pregnant and when they were due and I wanted to hold them all but she said no. I gave the pregnant bunnies extra carrots.

Back inside the house her mother waved us toward the table. I sat across from Sophie and Terri pulled a pizza from the oven, slapped it on a plate, placed it in front of me and growled, “You’d better eat the whole thing or I’m gonna beat yer ass.” My heart started beating faster and my face burned hot. Sophie had an entire pizza in front of her too. I didn’t even know that you could bake a pizza in a home oven; I thought pizza came from Shakey’s. Terri went off to the living room to watch TV. Sitting there with no utensils I did it. I ate the entire pizza. I looked up to see Sophie standing there next to my chair with a diet Pepsi in her hand. On her plate remained a large portion of her pizza. “Wow! You must have been really hungry!” I told her that her mom was going to beat my ass if I didn’t finish and she ran off laughing to tell her mom.

Terri came into the kitchen laughing at me. “You didn’t really think I’d beat your ass did ya? I was just kidding.” I wiped the sauce from my mouth onto my sleeve and stood; Terri put her arm around my shoulders and led me into the living room. Amongst the dark paneled walls and the thick veil of smoke I sat on the overstuffed couch. I don’t remember what was on TV but we sat there surrounded by the softest bunnies who would hop away as I tried to catch one after another. The puppies were let out of their room to roll and play at our feet and her two little girls played with their toys on the floor. I wanted to live there with them forever.

This weekend was crappy. One teenager in a shitty mood sucks, two will find me thinking of leaving on a Greyhound.

The weather was nice, however, meaning no rain for a change. I got a lot done despite the door slamming by the aforementioned spawn. I even cleaned my house in my wedding dress Saturday due to a lack of clean laundry. It was a perfect mood lifter as the neighbors were all out and every time I took the dog for a walk or the garbage out they commented on my appearance. It almost made me want to paint my face and wear a pair of fuck me pumps as well.

My weekend was brightened by a present from a woman in California.

Maggie is nine months old now. She is no longer my tiny puppy, but she still crawls onto my lap. She asks that no one notices the fact that she brought yet another rock in from outside, leaving this one beside her on the couch. She’s had a thing for rocks since I first got her, and I don’t need to hear another scary story about that friend of your sister whose dog had to have a rock surgically removed from its body and it cost $10,000. I’ve already heard that story several times and now I fear not only rocks but my savings account balance as well.

Itty Bitty is no longer so itty. Now I can call him Big Bitty, B. Bitty , Puff Bitty, P. Bitty etc. I hope he starts a successful rap career soon. Note the very light sprinkling of catnip on his head. He has just discovered the joys of the herb. I blame peer pressure from the older cats.

Being in a relationship for 19 years means that certain rules are established; there is no need to speak of them, they are silently there. Since my husband works the graveyard shift things are a little wacky in the rules department, but I stupidly thought we had established rules for when it is OK to wake one another up years ago. In order for me to wake him up, it must be a true bona fide emergency. That is the only rule, and I’d better be sure that is in an emergency, not a pseudo-emergency, otherwise he’ll whine about it all day.

In order for him to wake me up the following rules apply:

1) He wants sex? Sure, wake me. 99% of the time I am game as long as he doesn’t expect any reverse cowgirl acrobatics or anything else that requires amazing amounts of physical exertion and/or stamina on my part.

2) One of the kids is sick? Yes, wake me immediately.

3) One of the animals just barfed or shit on the floor? If he wakes me I will clean up the mess, go back to bed, and then secretly wish death on him for the rest of the day because he didn’t deal with it himself.

4) He can’t find something? I say no on this one, but he does it all of the time. He can’t find the Advil? He wakes me. It isn’t on the medicine cabinet so I get up and find it sitting on the desk or on top of the fridge. I shoot him hate rays as he blames me for things not being in their place. Apparently, as wife and mother, I am responsible for the proper whereabouts of every item in the house. This has happened with things in the fridge. I have stumbled out of bed, shoved aside the milk and pointed to the mustard, and then fallen back into bed. My word on this one is look harder for said item, or live without it.

5) To ask me if I am hungry? No. I am not hungry. I am tired. That is why I am sleeping. I must admit that I have caused this one to backfire on me many times when he has set a warm plate of freshly cooked hash browns by my head in the middle of the night and I have eaten them eagerly.

This morning, before the sun had its chance to rise, something new happened. I heard a loud whisper above my head, “Are you awake?” I mumbled “mmmm hmmmm” and he asked, “Could you tell me if this noodle is done?” I looked up and saw him standing there with a strand of spaghetti over my head. I mumbled something to the effect of “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, rolled over and tried to fall back to sleep. He used to work as a chef in an Italian restaurant for fuck’s sake.

Apparently, the rules are not yet carved in stone; there are variables. I did feel almost guilty when I finally woke up and ate his leftover spaghetti for breakfast though.

For the first time this year, I had two children who didn’t want to celebrate Halloween with me. Last year Nathan and I were moving my Mom out of the house she had sold and into her new apartment and so my sister Monica took Polly trick or treating. This year Polly wanted to go to a friend’s house to pass out candy and Nathan wanted to go with his girlfriend to help her take her little brothers trick or treating. I had always heard how fast it would go, those years with the little kids, and to cherish those moments while they lasted, but I don’t believe it really hit home until this year when I knew they would rather be with their friends. So I let them go.  I stayed home with the puppy Maggie and the cats. Alex had to work so we had the whole house to ourselves. I baked an apple rhubarb crisp. Maggie waited for me to drop peels as I worked on the apples, the way way she waits when I peel potatoes. We played fetch in the backyard in the dark, with nothing but the back porch light to go by. I thought of my kids over the years in their different costumes. Nathan was a clown, Barney,a clown again, Batman, a skeleton, Superman, Darth Maul, Zorro, Darth Vader, Scream, Leatherface and an assortment of masks that could only be described as yucky, or scary. Polly was Pooh Bear, A Bunny, a Princess and then came years of different variations of the princess theme. She was a ballerina princess, an ice skater princess, a fairy princess, a Glinda the good witch princess. Every year a princess, and I let her just go with it. Alex would wail,”A princess again?” and I would just shake my head at him to be silent. Then one year she announced she wanted to be a cheerleader. A dead cheerleader. That was a fun year because I got to go back to the way I wore my makeup in the 80s when I created her face. Most of those years Alex was unable to go with me to take the kids trick or treating because he had to work. Two of those years I was unable to go because I had to work, and for a baker, Halloween spells the beginning of the hell that is the holiday season. The first time Alex took the kids trick or treating while I was working I cried while I loaded sweets in and out of the oven. By my third year at that job I said to my supervisor before Halloween, “I’ll be in late Halloween night!” and she wasn’t even bothered by that.

Two groups of kids in costume were all that showed up at our door. When Nathan came home he said that there weren’t many kids out in the neighborhood he was in and predicted that Halloween as he used to know it would be dead within three years. Polly had a good time passing out candy, but she seemed to miss having some to eat ,because she wanted to go to the store to buy some. No one wanted apple rhubarb crisp. Maybe next year I’ll have made a friend or two and I’ll have someone to hang out with.

Sorry I haven’t been able to update; I’ve been the sickest I’ve been in ages. I’m finally feeling like I may be coming back to the land of the living tonight. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I just drank an iced coffee with a shot of espresso. I never do that this late in the day but I needed a kick to help me get some work done.

My illness started with food poisoning, and once I had ridden the porcelain god for a night, the cold from hell crept up and kicked me. Actually, I think it was the flu because fever, chills, body aches, oh my. Whatever. I am done for the whole season I hope. Oh, and if you are sniffing something in your fridge and wondering if it’s still good maybe you should just throw it out. I can’t believe I needed to learn that lesson again.

I just got done cooking a real dinner for my family, one that involved chopping and preheating and sautéing etc. I have been turning a blind eye to the food situation the past few days as I stayed sweating on the couch. I was actually relieved that they are now old enough to fix themselves something for dinner if need be. Sure, that might be a bowl of cereal or Macaroni and cheese from a box, but a few days won’t hurt them.

I made this for dinner tonight from chocolate and zucchini.

It was a huge success. I ate a bean burrito. Sometimes I feel a little left out as a vegetarian, but not often.

Le Poulet de Muriel

1 large free-range chicken, about 2 kilos (4 pounds)
1 tablespoon olive oil
Fine sea salt, freshly ground pepper
1 large head garlic
1 organic lemon, cut in four quarters
4 sprigs of fresh thyme
2 sprigs of fresh rosemary

Rub the skin of the chicken with olive oil, sprinkle it with salt and pepper on all sides, and place it, breasts-side up, in a clay pot or cast-iron cocotte large enough to accommodate it. Peel the outer layers off the head of garlic to separate the individual cloves — don’t peel the cloves themselves. Arrange the cloves, lemon, and herbs around the chicken.

Put the lid on, slip the pot in the cold (not preheated) oven, and turn the oven on to 150°C (300°F). Bake for three hours, or until cooked through (if you have a meat thermometer, insert it in the inner part of a thigh: the chicken is done when the thermometer registers 82°C / 180°F), basting the chicken with its own juices every 45 minutes or so.

Transfer the chicken to a cutting board, carve the different serving parts, and transfer to a warm serving dish (pour very hot water from the kettle into it and let stand as you cut the chicken). Transfer the juices, herbs, and cloves to a gravy boat, and serve immediately, with green beans and mashed potatoes.

I think it’s cute that I get several hits a week from people trying to figure out how to pronounce tempeh. When I first became a vegetarian, back in the 80s, I couldn’t pronounce it either.

Tempeh Pronunciation:

\ˈtem-ˌpā\

Function:

noun

Etymology:

Javanese témpé

Date:

1950