I've been doing a lot of thinking about cake (and baked goods in general) and pondering the phenomenon that I've been taking for granted. By combining a series of ingredients which look nothing like a finished cake, I end up with a just that! It's like magic.
How can a thing be defined as the sum of its parts if when separated they contain no hint of the final product? a slice of cake looks nothing like an egg, cup of flour or spoonful of sugar. And what about environmental factors? The heat from the oven makes the cake rise, giving it that lovely golden glow.
The big picture; more than just a sum of its frames. Each slightly altered from the one before, there is little or no semblance from the final feature length product.
How do we define things? What makes something what it is? And isn't whatever you are considering or looking at itself a part of a greater thing, rendering it in itself a part of a sum of parts?
Friday, March 2, 2007
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Coming Soon to a Theatre Near You
It's been a while since I wrote my last post, and wanted to squeeze a last one in, especially it being the shortest month of the year (which does have its upside as it means I'll be getting paid sooner...) It’s been an odd few days. Consumed with sleep, I've been battling with my internal clock but not matter how early I go to bed, my body refuses to be awake at 7:30 am. And can you blame it???
So having been wrapped up in the world of movies lately (I blame the Oscars) I can't help but wonder about happy endings. Apart from the masochistic, narcissistic few out there (you know who you are), we pile all our efforts into achieving just that, thinking that we want a happy ending, but do we really?
In a movie, and let's look at the most basic structure of a romantic comedy, we are led to believe that everything past the closing credits and the sappy crooning is rainbows and sunshine and babies. There is a suggestion that nothing of real significance happens past this point of bliss. This often involves a wedding dress and/or a bun in the oven, with someone who was a stranger approximately 92 minutes earlier (and anything longer than that automatically prompts most thinking intelligent beings subjected to the story into a deep and well-deserved slumber).
Many of us have started to view our lives as our own little (or big) movie, probably thanks to the ubiquitous 'biographies' out there. We experience our highs and lows to a soundtrack and carefully consider who we believe our supporting actors to be. We dramatize insignificant events, and tell each other what happened to us today, each from our own heroic perspective. We mentally edit the teaser, the trailer and the montages over and over, wondering if we've captured the mood and the moment. We take make-up and wardrobe seriously, and exert insurmountable efforts to remain in character. But most of all, we worry about the ending. We think about labels, choosing between Cinderella story and war-time epic, or perhaps an open-ended mystery? We wonder which would make the most exciting feature, not wanting to end up as a short. Most importantly, we shy away from the scariest genre of them all: Documentary. What nobody ever wants to see is the real truth.
But when I think about endings; happy, tragic or ambiguous, I do not worry. I know that the ending of one story is the beginning, or perhaps middle, of another. I like to believe in the prospect of a sequel for my story and my life. Or several, for that matter. A happy ending simply won't cut it.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
the time of your life
Claire sits in a room, seemingly unaware of the others around her. Rocking back and forth, she hums quietly to herself, something that sounds like a lullaby, over and over.
A young man, sitting to her left, reaches out his hand to tap her on the shoulder. "We should make sure she's okay," he tells the rest. As soon as he makes contact, Claire emerges from her trance, weary and disheveled, to the sight of eight others, sitting in a circle, uncomfortable in their rickety plastic chairs which had been donated to the community centre many years prior. The man to Claire's left reminds her of a young poet, with thick wavy hair and grass green eyes. A closer look reveals a hard glassiness, an invisible barrier forbidding any trespassers, sacrosanct against 'the outside'.
The point of the support group wasn't a matter of self-help; it was a matter of self-preservation. Being able to walk out of the room with you soul intact, not having squandered it for a few moments of peace. Claire couldn't remember a day go by that she didn't relive the memory of her lost life in her head. And Claire was only ever in her head these days.
It had been an orange day. The changing leaves and the warm sun combined to form a deceptively comforting glow, one clothed in the underlying death of summer. She had left the turkey in the oven, not needing to baste it for another half hour, and wandered out of the house for a smoke, eying the calendar on her way out; "Christmas soon," she thought, "1998 is almost over." She sighed.
Claire could hear the familiar drone of family banter, studded with the occasional laugh from Uncle Morty, whose alcohol intake and protruding belly had been increasing steadily over the years. Claire walked away from the house, anxious to be alone, and flicked the lighter on, giving life to the cigarette, its end glowing with a passion of the knowledge of its impending demise. She inhaled the fumes and exhaled, her staccato cough punctuating the ruffling leaves around her. It had been a while since her last smoke. Her blonde hair, stringy and limp, now carried the fumes of a well-seasoned turkey. Her cashmere sweater housed the faint aroma of sweet potatoes. Claire was a walking-talking tribute to all that is holy and sacred during Thanksgiving weekend--the food.
It was only when she started making her way back to the house that she noticed the car parked a short distance away from the house, its engine running and its windows fogged up. She stepped cautiously, for fear from getting caught spying on the unsuspecting neighbors as she very much thought they were. She got a little closer and that's when she noticed the number plates--it was a rented car. She peered into the driver’s seat and could make out the outline of a young blonde woman. In the passenger seat was a sweet young man, his green eyes taking in every inch of the woman in front of him. Claire felt like an intruder and with sheepish embarrassment, she stepped away from the car, and made her way quickly back to the house.
When she walked in, she almost didn't notice the missing aroma of Thanksgiving dinner. She slipped into the kitchen, not wanting to explain where she had been. It was unusually cold and slightly eerie. Not a pot or pan in sight. She blinked several times, trying to understand what had happened. Had someone come in, finished basting, put all the food in the dining room and meticulously cleaned up? All in the time that she had smoked a cigarette and spied on the neighbors?
She walked into the living room where her family sat. She looked around at the vaguely familiar faces, none of which registered an ounce of recognition. "I'm sorry," started Uncle Morty, less rotund than Claire had ever seen him but with the same sparkle in his eye, "are you a friend of Lisa's?" Claire was dumbfounded, her thoughts raced. Lisa was her mother; she has passed away eight years ago from a misdiagnosed headache. It had turned out to be a cancerous tumor.
Claire's heart started to pound, her breath quickened and the room began to spin. In the distance she could hear another voice, "Oh, is Lisa still saying goodbye to that boyfriend of hers in the car? Someone should tell her that her guest is here." Claire couldn't hear anymore, she had fainted on the floor.
Claire looked at the stranger sitting beside her. He held out his hand, gesturing that she could hold it if she wanted. She looked into his eyes, lined with wrinkles from a lifetime of worry but expressing a kindness that she couldn't understand.
She looked at the clock hanging in the entrance of the community centre; 7:52. "Almost over," she thought to herself. Right below the clock hung a calendar, and Claire tried to ignore it, having been the source of her anguish for so long. The clock ticked on.
Claire felt a light tap on her shoulder. It was the kind stranger with the haunting green eyes. "Lisa, honey," he said softly, "are you ready to go?" She got up slowly, her pregnancy weighing her down and took the stranger's hand for support. Walking slowly out of the room, she couldn’t help but glance back at the calendar, hoping for some proof of a lost reality, but she couldn't escape its truth; it was still 1968.
A young man, sitting to her left, reaches out his hand to tap her on the shoulder. "We should make sure she's okay," he tells the rest. As soon as he makes contact, Claire emerges from her trance, weary and disheveled, to the sight of eight others, sitting in a circle, uncomfortable in their rickety plastic chairs which had been donated to the community centre many years prior. The man to Claire's left reminds her of a young poet, with thick wavy hair and grass green eyes. A closer look reveals a hard glassiness, an invisible barrier forbidding any trespassers, sacrosanct against 'the outside'.
The point of the support group wasn't a matter of self-help; it was a matter of self-preservation. Being able to walk out of the room with you soul intact, not having squandered it for a few moments of peace. Claire couldn't remember a day go by that she didn't relive the memory of her lost life in her head. And Claire was only ever in her head these days.
It had been an orange day. The changing leaves and the warm sun combined to form a deceptively comforting glow, one clothed in the underlying death of summer. She had left the turkey in the oven, not needing to baste it for another half hour, and wandered out of the house for a smoke, eying the calendar on her way out; "Christmas soon," she thought, "1998 is almost over." She sighed.
Claire could hear the familiar drone of family banter, studded with the occasional laugh from Uncle Morty, whose alcohol intake and protruding belly had been increasing steadily over the years. Claire walked away from the house, anxious to be alone, and flicked the lighter on, giving life to the cigarette, its end glowing with a passion of the knowledge of its impending demise. She inhaled the fumes and exhaled, her staccato cough punctuating the ruffling leaves around her. It had been a while since her last smoke. Her blonde hair, stringy and limp, now carried the fumes of a well-seasoned turkey. Her cashmere sweater housed the faint aroma of sweet potatoes. Claire was a walking-talking tribute to all that is holy and sacred during Thanksgiving weekend--the food.
It was only when she started making her way back to the house that she noticed the car parked a short distance away from the house, its engine running and its windows fogged up. She stepped cautiously, for fear from getting caught spying on the unsuspecting neighbors as she very much thought they were. She got a little closer and that's when she noticed the number plates--it was a rented car. She peered into the driver’s seat and could make out the outline of a young blonde woman. In the passenger seat was a sweet young man, his green eyes taking in every inch of the woman in front of him. Claire felt like an intruder and with sheepish embarrassment, she stepped away from the car, and made her way quickly back to the house.
When she walked in, she almost didn't notice the missing aroma of Thanksgiving dinner. She slipped into the kitchen, not wanting to explain where she had been. It was unusually cold and slightly eerie. Not a pot or pan in sight. She blinked several times, trying to understand what had happened. Had someone come in, finished basting, put all the food in the dining room and meticulously cleaned up? All in the time that she had smoked a cigarette and spied on the neighbors?
She walked into the living room where her family sat. She looked around at the vaguely familiar faces, none of which registered an ounce of recognition. "I'm sorry," started Uncle Morty, less rotund than Claire had ever seen him but with the same sparkle in his eye, "are you a friend of Lisa's?" Claire was dumbfounded, her thoughts raced. Lisa was her mother; she has passed away eight years ago from a misdiagnosed headache. It had turned out to be a cancerous tumor.
Claire's heart started to pound, her breath quickened and the room began to spin. In the distance she could hear another voice, "Oh, is Lisa still saying goodbye to that boyfriend of hers in the car? Someone should tell her that her guest is here." Claire couldn't hear anymore, she had fainted on the floor.
Claire looked at the stranger sitting beside her. He held out his hand, gesturing that she could hold it if she wanted. She looked into his eyes, lined with wrinkles from a lifetime of worry but expressing a kindness that she couldn't understand.
She looked at the clock hanging in the entrance of the community centre; 7:52. "Almost over," she thought to herself. Right below the clock hung a calendar, and Claire tried to ignore it, having been the source of her anguish for so long. The clock ticked on.
Claire felt a light tap on her shoulder. It was the kind stranger with the haunting green eyes. "Lisa, honey," he said softly, "are you ready to go?" She got up slowly, her pregnancy weighing her down and took the stranger's hand for support. Walking slowly out of the room, she couldn’t help but glance back at the calendar, hoping for some proof of a lost reality, but she couldn't escape its truth; it was still 1968.
Monday, February 5, 2007
a fear of feeling inadequate
"Half the battle is getting over the fear of feeling inadequate."
While editing a certain someone's paper, I came across this observation which, although was being used in a specific context, suddenly shed a new light on my own fear of inadequacy.
Anybody who knows me will tell you that I have been putting off my masterpieces. Whether it be a novel or a perfectly poached egg, it feels as though I am trying to take large steps with baby feet. Where does this fear of inadequacy stem from? Is it universal, like the fear of death and public speaking, or bred from a past experience, like a fear of clowns and cupcakes?
Even writing this blog feels like a battle every time, each post laced with the fear of being inadequate, or even worse, mediocre. What if I have no ideas left? What if my well has dried up before I've had a chance to morph from average into successful and confident?
Every time I come to write, whether it be about cake or bunnies, it makes me nervous. What makes me nervous is not the fact that others are judging me by my writing, but that I myself am the most critical judge of my writing. What scares me is the thought that I will begin to measure my self-worth by the product, and no longer by the process.
"Millions of people live their entire lives without finding themselves. But it is something I must do. The best way for me to find myself as a person is to prove to myself that I am an actress."
While editing a certain someone's paper, I came across this observation which, although was being used in a specific context, suddenly shed a new light on my own fear of inadequacy.
Anybody who knows me will tell you that I have been putting off my masterpieces. Whether it be a novel or a perfectly poached egg, it feels as though I am trying to take large steps with baby feet. Where does this fear of inadequacy stem from? Is it universal, like the fear of death and public speaking, or bred from a past experience, like a fear of clowns and cupcakes?
Even writing this blog feels like a battle every time, each post laced with the fear of being inadequate, or even worse, mediocre. What if I have no ideas left? What if my well has dried up before I've had a chance to morph from average into successful and confident?
Every time I come to write, whether it be about cake or bunnies, it makes me nervous. What makes me nervous is not the fact that others are judging me by my writing, but that I myself am the most critical judge of my writing. What scares me is the thought that I will begin to measure my self-worth by the product, and no longer by the process.
"Millions of people live their entire lives without finding themselves. But it is something I must do. The best way for me to find myself as a person is to prove to myself that I am an actress."
Did Marilyn believe that the only way to find out who she was was by defining what she was. Being an actress made her feel like she was someone. And not anyone, but Marilyn Monroe, actress. By being able to define herself by what she did, her job, she was, in a way, proving to herself that she really did exist.
But does "actress" really define her, or is it just a job? And is a job, a profession, a measure of who you are? Is it an easy way out of defining who you are? If you live your whole life not being something, can you still be someone? And when do you know that you've become the person who you really are?
Maybe finding yourself is overrated. Maybe it is so difficult because every time you find what you believe to be yourself, you are already somewhere else. You spend your life chasing a truth that, in itself, is mercurial in its state.
Why are we so fixated on finding ourselves?
Maybe it's easier to to just wait, patiently, hoping to be found by someone else.
Thursday, February 1, 2007
A tree stands in a forest...
Standing on his own but surrounded by an entire forest, Jason the Oak Tree didn't have much to look forward to. He spent his mornings hoping for a visit from a squirrel or two, but they rarely came. He spent his afternoons trying to reach up for a feel of the sun on his leaves, but he was too short. He spent his evenings trying to whisper to the trees around him, but no-one ever whispered back. Jason spent sleepless nights wondering whether there was any meaning to it all and waited impatiently for dawn to come; not because he had anything to look forward to, but only because he wanted the empty nights to be over.
To his left was another oak tree, a few years older than him. His name was George. They didn't say very much to each other, the age gap meant they had very little in common. Sometimes George would ask Jason what time it was. Jason would look up at the leafy canopy above, trying to peek through the leaves of his elders to get a tiny glimpse of the sky. But even squinting wouldn't help him gauge the position of the sun. Jason would try very hard, hoping for a breeze that would ruffle the leaves and give him a beacon of light. But this wouldn't happen very often, and when it did, Jason usually noticed too late. He spent most of his time looking down at the soil, trying to make friends with an earthworm or bug. Even they weren't interested in him.
One grey morning when Jason was fast asleep, having stayed awake until dawn trying to get the attention of some owls, a loud mechanical roar woke him obnoxiously from his slumber. He tried to make out where the cacophony was coming from but it seemed to be seeping into the forest from all around him. Jason looked around; the trees around him all shared his confusion. Still, not many took notice of him. With a worried look, Lucy, a slightly older tree, asked him, "What's going on?” her leaves moving in a ripple as she turned to talk to him. Before he could get a single syllable out, she had turned again, creating a slight breeze as she did so. A fresh aroma from Lucy's pine cones washed over Jason. He breathed in her scent, wishing he has been brave enough to talk to her first. Then he realized this would have been futile anyway.
The thundering roar got louder and louder, and Jason could feel his very roots shudder with the vibration of the approaching monster. He closed his eyes; Jason wasn't very brave. The noise got louder and louder, until he was sure he had gone deaf. After a few minutes the noise was gone. He was sure he had been killed.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes. "Heaven is dustier than I thought," he mused to himself. He could hear some voices in the distance but his vision was still blurred. The voices started to get nearer, the language indecipherable. "I guess they speak a different language in heaven," he said to himself, this time out loud.
One of the voices got quite close. He could now make out what it was saying. It spoke quickly, responding to another voice. He squinted, trying to see more clearly. There were no trees around him. He must have been the only one to make it to heaven, he thought.
It was then that Jason heard the voice again, loud and clear. "Looks like we missed one." He felt a prod at his base, a poke at his bark.
"Should we do away with this one too?" a second voice asked the first. There was a slight pause, followed by another prod, this time to one of his roots.
Then the first voice spoke up again, "He was a lucky one. I guess we can spare him."
The two voices moved away, getting further and further until Jason couldn't hear them anymore.
He was left standing on his own.
To his left was another oak tree, a few years older than him. His name was George. They didn't say very much to each other, the age gap meant they had very little in common. Sometimes George would ask Jason what time it was. Jason would look up at the leafy canopy above, trying to peek through the leaves of his elders to get a tiny glimpse of the sky. But even squinting wouldn't help him gauge the position of the sun. Jason would try very hard, hoping for a breeze that would ruffle the leaves and give him a beacon of light. But this wouldn't happen very often, and when it did, Jason usually noticed too late. He spent most of his time looking down at the soil, trying to make friends with an earthworm or bug. Even they weren't interested in him.
One grey morning when Jason was fast asleep, having stayed awake until dawn trying to get the attention of some owls, a loud mechanical roar woke him obnoxiously from his slumber. He tried to make out where the cacophony was coming from but it seemed to be seeping into the forest from all around him. Jason looked around; the trees around him all shared his confusion. Still, not many took notice of him. With a worried look, Lucy, a slightly older tree, asked him, "What's going on?” her leaves moving in a ripple as she turned to talk to him. Before he could get a single syllable out, she had turned again, creating a slight breeze as she did so. A fresh aroma from Lucy's pine cones washed over Jason. He breathed in her scent, wishing he has been brave enough to talk to her first. Then he realized this would have been futile anyway.
The thundering roar got louder and louder, and Jason could feel his very roots shudder with the vibration of the approaching monster. He closed his eyes; Jason wasn't very brave. The noise got louder and louder, until he was sure he had gone deaf. After a few minutes the noise was gone. He was sure he had been killed.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes. "Heaven is dustier than I thought," he mused to himself. He could hear some voices in the distance but his vision was still blurred. The voices started to get nearer, the language indecipherable. "I guess they speak a different language in heaven," he said to himself, this time out loud.
One of the voices got quite close. He could now make out what it was saying. It spoke quickly, responding to another voice. He squinted, trying to see more clearly. There were no trees around him. He must have been the only one to make it to heaven, he thought.
It was then that Jason heard the voice again, loud and clear. "Looks like we missed one." He felt a prod at his base, a poke at his bark.
"Should we do away with this one too?" a second voice asked the first. There was a slight pause, followed by another prod, this time to one of his roots.
Then the first voice spoke up again, "He was a lucky one. I guess we can spare him."
The two voices moved away, getting further and further until Jason couldn't hear them anymore.
He was left standing on his own.
Monday, January 29, 2007
party of one
The pots and pans rattle; the din of the kitchen is suffocating. I push open the door and take in a deep breath of the smoky air.
The restaurant is full, our clientele diverse. A group of well-dressed women heartily devour their steaks, medium-rare or they'll send them back, while an older couple enjoys a quiet dinner, exchanging glances and bites instead of stories and anecdotes. On the other side of the room, a young couple fights. My experience tells me they are breaking up; her with him, she's fallen in love with the gardener. Or pool boy. Or tennis instructor. Or something of the sort. I stand right beside one of two birthday tables this evening. A young lady celebrates her 18th birthday; she blows out her candles in two breaths, laughing hysterically and flashes go off in an attempt to capture the moment forever. The cake, immaculately covered in pink icing, is cut to reveal a divine chocolate filling, punctuated by raspberries which seem to bleed with each slice. I look over to the other birthday table. There is quiet conversation and the atmosphere is altogether more serious. No party hats, no cameras, no cake. So sombre that I would have never guessed there was anything to celebrate at table 12. The young man's mother had come earlier to request that "no birthday stuff" be brought out. She had left her credit card to take care of the bill, slipping a crisp $100 bill in my hand as she said goodbye. I thanked her, assuring her that it was unnecessary but she insisted that I take it, asking me to take the utmost care of her son. I didn't think it wise to ask any questions. I slipped the bill into the tip jar.
As I meander through the dining room, I note that the most popular dish of the evening is the grilled fillet mignon, each cooked to perfection, even when ordered "very well done", much to the horror of my head chef. Maurice's heart breaks in two every time a waiter waltzes in with an order, "Table 6. Two steaks. Well-done." Pause. "Sorry Maurice." Earlier in the kitchen, I heard him mumble under his breath after Antonio walked in with an order of seven well-done steaks, all for the same table. "Les americains..." he muttered. I ignored him, what do the French know about food anyway?
It is now almost closing time. A few tables are still occupied. The fighting couple is making up, over a good recommendation of Beaujolais Nouveau by Collin, my newest English recruit. The birthday group is still here; not the young lady's 18th but surprisingly, the young man's. He beckons me over. "Please, enjoy a glass of wine with us. You have done so much to make this evening so memorable for me." I politely decline. He insists. I take a glass and pull up a chair. A night like so many others, I doubt I will remember much of our conversation the next morning. I drink the wine; it slips past my tongue and down my throat; welcomed like an old friend. I drink a little more. The young man (his name is Gregory, I learn) tops up my glass. I thank him, and drink the rest. At this point I notice that the dining room is almost empty.
I walk over to the only other occupied table. Four attractive women look up at me as I get closer to them. One whispers something to the only brunette at the table and she smiles seductively at me. I think of my wife and daughter at home, probably fast asleep by now. Another day that I've missed away from my family. "Hello ladies," I say, "I trust you've had an enjoyable evening?" The brunette answers on their behalf, "Of course, the food has been exquisite. But if only it hadn't taken you so long to come over." I smile, flattered by her intended compliment. She looks at me, waiting for me to say something witty to which she will quickly deliver an equally-witty reply. But all I say is, "Will there be anything else, ladies, or would you like me to bring the check?" The brunette seems a little surprised but nevertheless replies, "Not at all. It's getting late and we must get home." As I wait for their check to print, I cautiously look back at their table. The brunette looks back at me. I hurriedly look away, slipping the check into a leather-bound envelope. Taking a chance, I also slip in my business card, with my private cellphone number written on the back. When I walk over to the table, the brunette picks up her glass, downing the rest of her Pinot Gris. "I'll take that, thank you," she says, gesturing for me to hand her the check. As I walk away, her friends all interrupt with pleas of "splitting the bill" but she will have none of it. She slips my card into her purse and they all get up. All are taller than I would have imagined. And slimmer.
She doesn't look at me again. The party of four walks out of my restaurant, the three blondes leading the way. As the door closes behind the brunette, she turns around and with a quick motion, takes out my card, crumples it up and leaves it laying in the gutter. She smiles at me, raises an eyebrow and after pausing for a minute, walks away. I am stunned.
My attention goes back to the birthday table. Gregory and his friends are getting ready to leave, feeling they may have outstayed their welcome. Most of my waiters have gone home. A couple stand outside, smoking a cigarette. Gregory comes over to settle the bill but I explain it has already been taken care of. He thanks me again, and with a warm handshake, tells me that his birthday was everything he hoped it would be.
As the last person walks out of my restaurant, I sit in an empty chair by the window, and with every passing minute, watch the cars whiz by. I look at my watch; it is almost two in the morning. I go into the kitchen to close up. Maurice has left it impeccable; all that is left for me to do is switch off the lights. In the dining room, I add up the day's total. Not bad for a Thursday.
I step into the crisp November night and, for the first time that day, breathe.
The restaurant is full, our clientele diverse. A group of well-dressed women heartily devour their steaks, medium-rare or they'll send them back, while an older couple enjoys a quiet dinner, exchanging glances and bites instead of stories and anecdotes. On the other side of the room, a young couple fights. My experience tells me they are breaking up; her with him, she's fallen in love with the gardener. Or pool boy. Or tennis instructor. Or something of the sort. I stand right beside one of two birthday tables this evening. A young lady celebrates her 18th birthday; she blows out her candles in two breaths, laughing hysterically and flashes go off in an attempt to capture the moment forever. The cake, immaculately covered in pink icing, is cut to reveal a divine chocolate filling, punctuated by raspberries which seem to bleed with each slice. I look over to the other birthday table. There is quiet conversation and the atmosphere is altogether more serious. No party hats, no cameras, no cake. So sombre that I would have never guessed there was anything to celebrate at table 12. The young man's mother had come earlier to request that "no birthday stuff" be brought out. She had left her credit card to take care of the bill, slipping a crisp $100 bill in my hand as she said goodbye. I thanked her, assuring her that it was unnecessary but she insisted that I take it, asking me to take the utmost care of her son. I didn't think it wise to ask any questions. I slipped the bill into the tip jar.
As I meander through the dining room, I note that the most popular dish of the evening is the grilled fillet mignon, each cooked to perfection, even when ordered "very well done", much to the horror of my head chef. Maurice's heart breaks in two every time a waiter waltzes in with an order, "Table 6. Two steaks. Well-done." Pause. "Sorry Maurice." Earlier in the kitchen, I heard him mumble under his breath after Antonio walked in with an order of seven well-done steaks, all for the same table. "Les americains..." he muttered. I ignored him, what do the French know about food anyway?
It is now almost closing time. A few tables are still occupied. The fighting couple is making up, over a good recommendation of Beaujolais Nouveau by Collin, my newest English recruit. The birthday group is still here; not the young lady's 18th but surprisingly, the young man's. He beckons me over. "Please, enjoy a glass of wine with us. You have done so much to make this evening so memorable for me." I politely decline. He insists. I take a glass and pull up a chair. A night like so many others, I doubt I will remember much of our conversation the next morning. I drink the wine; it slips past my tongue and down my throat; welcomed like an old friend. I drink a little more. The young man (his name is Gregory, I learn) tops up my glass. I thank him, and drink the rest. At this point I notice that the dining room is almost empty.
I walk over to the only other occupied table. Four attractive women look up at me as I get closer to them. One whispers something to the only brunette at the table and she smiles seductively at me. I think of my wife and daughter at home, probably fast asleep by now. Another day that I've missed away from my family. "Hello ladies," I say, "I trust you've had an enjoyable evening?" The brunette answers on their behalf, "Of course, the food has been exquisite. But if only it hadn't taken you so long to come over." I smile, flattered by her intended compliment. She looks at me, waiting for me to say something witty to which she will quickly deliver an equally-witty reply. But all I say is, "Will there be anything else, ladies, or would you like me to bring the check?" The brunette seems a little surprised but nevertheless replies, "Not at all. It's getting late and we must get home." As I wait for their check to print, I cautiously look back at their table. The brunette looks back at me. I hurriedly look away, slipping the check into a leather-bound envelope. Taking a chance, I also slip in my business card, with my private cellphone number written on the back. When I walk over to the table, the brunette picks up her glass, downing the rest of her Pinot Gris. "I'll take that, thank you," she says, gesturing for me to hand her the check. As I walk away, her friends all interrupt with pleas of "splitting the bill" but she will have none of it. She slips my card into her purse and they all get up. All are taller than I would have imagined. And slimmer.
She doesn't look at me again. The party of four walks out of my restaurant, the three blondes leading the way. As the door closes behind the brunette, she turns around and with a quick motion, takes out my card, crumples it up and leaves it laying in the gutter. She smiles at me, raises an eyebrow and after pausing for a minute, walks away. I am stunned.
My attention goes back to the birthday table. Gregory and his friends are getting ready to leave, feeling they may have outstayed their welcome. Most of my waiters have gone home. A couple stand outside, smoking a cigarette. Gregory comes over to settle the bill but I explain it has already been taken care of. He thanks me again, and with a warm handshake, tells me that his birthday was everything he hoped it would be.
As the last person walks out of my restaurant, I sit in an empty chair by the window, and with every passing minute, watch the cars whiz by. I look at my watch; it is almost two in the morning. I go into the kitchen to close up. Maurice has left it impeccable; all that is left for me to do is switch off the lights. In the dining room, I add up the day's total. Not bad for a Thursday.
I step into the crisp November night and, for the first time that day, breathe.
Friday, January 26, 2007
the meaning of food...
This is a highly deceiving title as this post has nothing whatsoever to do with food (or at least very little). But it does have a little to do with the meaning of life. If I know, really know, what I want to 'do when I grow up' and what I want to do is actually a lot of things, how do I pick?
I sit, alone, lounging on a faraway beach listening to the seagulls, hugging a hot mug of coffee and musing about my next installment of Henry the Hoppity Bunny. Henry's been labeled the latest craze in children's literature, fusing thriller with adventure; romance with action; horror with bunny. The kids are lining up at the stores. The parents wait for their young to fall asleep before sneaking their copy of Henry the Hoppity Bunny's latest adventure/romance/mystery. Churches and schools are banning the books, citing the worship of bunnies to be immoral. The first installment has made it to the big screen, with the next three already in production. I'm credited as consultant. I've never visited the set, and the only person I have spoken to from the studio is James, a squat middle-aged man, more interested in talking numbers than chatting about the benefits of sea air. And all the while, fan fiction websites are popping up, all chronicling Henry's thrilling romantic action-packed bunny-filled adventures.
But my fame remains a paradox. Exposed yet obscured. With no husband, no children and very few friends, some begin to wonder whether the famous Clara A. Thatcher does in fact exist. The pen name does not fool anyone. They begin to wonder whether I am trying to convey a secret message, visible only to those smart enough to make out the anagram 'CAT' in my name. Will my next protagonist be a cat? they wonder to themselves as they chat online, in libraries and on spaceships. The excitement is almost too much to bear.
I hadn't noticed the anagram. Nor have I any affinity to cats. Perhaps I could write about Camilla the Curious Cat but somehow I fear for her fate; I see an unfortunate end for her, scarcely before she has had time to grow a long enough tail.
I pick up a pen and begin to doodle on a notepad. I draw a cat. I try to make her look like she's smiling but somehow her expression comes off looking like a scowl. I scribble her out. I pause then rip off the page, scrunch it into a ball and fling it towards the sea. It manages to travel a few inches before a gust of wind flings it back at me, catching it in my hair.
The real Henry is getting restless. I can see him hopping about, with neither adventures nor romances to his name. Not even a measly mystery for him to solve using his thrilling crime-fighting prowess. He hops a little more, pausing for thought. How many carrots have I had today? he wonders. Not enough, he concludes, and continues his hopping, finding and munching escapades.
It it almost sunset and the very thought of a romantic setting makes my stomach turn. I hurriedly get up, leaving the notepad behind and walk back towards the house. I pick up Henry along the way. For company. But before closing the door, I quickly glance around the foyer, making sure that pesky Camilla hasn't somehow snuck her way into my life.
I sit, alone, lounging on a faraway beach listening to the seagulls, hugging a hot mug of coffee and musing about my next installment of Henry the Hoppity Bunny. Henry's been labeled the latest craze in children's literature, fusing thriller with adventure; romance with action; horror with bunny. The kids are lining up at the stores. The parents wait for their young to fall asleep before sneaking their copy of Henry the Hoppity Bunny's latest adventure/romance/mystery. Churches and schools are banning the books, citing the worship of bunnies to be immoral. The first installment has made it to the big screen, with the next three already in production. I'm credited as consultant. I've never visited the set, and the only person I have spoken to from the studio is James, a squat middle-aged man, more interested in talking numbers than chatting about the benefits of sea air. And all the while, fan fiction websites are popping up, all chronicling Henry's thrilling romantic action-packed bunny-filled adventures.
But my fame remains a paradox. Exposed yet obscured. With no husband, no children and very few friends, some begin to wonder whether the famous Clara A. Thatcher does in fact exist. The pen name does not fool anyone. They begin to wonder whether I am trying to convey a secret message, visible only to those smart enough to make out the anagram 'CAT' in my name. Will my next protagonist be a cat? they wonder to themselves as they chat online, in libraries and on spaceships. The excitement is almost too much to bear.
I hadn't noticed the anagram. Nor have I any affinity to cats. Perhaps I could write about Camilla the Curious Cat but somehow I fear for her fate; I see an unfortunate end for her, scarcely before she has had time to grow a long enough tail.
I pick up a pen and begin to doodle on a notepad. I draw a cat. I try to make her look like she's smiling but somehow her expression comes off looking like a scowl. I scribble her out. I pause then rip off the page, scrunch it into a ball and fling it towards the sea. It manages to travel a few inches before a gust of wind flings it back at me, catching it in my hair.
The real Henry is getting restless. I can see him hopping about, with neither adventures nor romances to his name. Not even a measly mystery for him to solve using his thrilling crime-fighting prowess. He hops a little more, pausing for thought. How many carrots have I had today? he wonders. Not enough, he concludes, and continues his hopping, finding and munching escapades.
It it almost sunset and the very thought of a romantic setting makes my stomach turn. I hurriedly get up, leaving the notepad behind and walk back towards the house. I pick up Henry along the way. For company. But before closing the door, I quickly glance around the foyer, making sure that pesky Camilla hasn't somehow snuck her way into my life.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
pre-lunch; post-breakfast
The office is pretty quiet today. It's almost the weekend so maybe people are taking quick naps (pre-lunch; post-snack) to recharge, making sure they have ample energy to do nothing but eat all weekend (and then "diet" all week, of course).
Food seems to be the main topic of converstation around here. What did you have for dinner? I had a small breakfast. Are you having lunch here? I feel like a burger with extra onions and large fries. Is that all? Oh, I'd like a Diet Coke, but please make sure it's Diet. I feel guilty, I shouldn't have had that. Oh it's okay to cheat, doctors say it's better than not having something you crave. Hmmm got any chocolate? I could go for a quick coffee actually. Double latte. Fudge brownie. Oh, can I have nonfat milk with the latte? You know, I only drink nonfat. That was good. I wonder what's for dinner? Well, there's a new restaurant which, apparently, has been packed to the brim. What do they serve? Why, sushi of course! Naturally with a side of hummus and french fries...
Here, I have found the meaning of life: Food. People aren't eating to live, they're living to eat. Times of day surround meals. Before breakfast. During lunch. Before dinner. After my midnight snack! At breakfast, the topic of discussion is lunch. At lunch, we reminisce about breakfast and anticipate dinner. And naturally, at dinner, we discuss tomorrow's breakfast.
I really can't be bothered to get up, walk somewhere (or drive, more likely) and go get something to eat. I'll just get it delivered. Oh, in some countries there are restaurants that don't deliver? How barbaric. I do wonder how they get by.
Food seems to be the main topic of converstation around here. What did you have for dinner? I had a small breakfast. Are you having lunch here? I feel like a burger with extra onions and large fries. Is that all? Oh, I'd like a Diet Coke, but please make sure it's Diet. I feel guilty, I shouldn't have had that. Oh it's okay to cheat, doctors say it's better than not having something you crave. Hmmm got any chocolate? I could go for a quick coffee actually. Double latte. Fudge brownie. Oh, can I have nonfat milk with the latte? You know, I only drink nonfat. That was good. I wonder what's for dinner? Well, there's a new restaurant which, apparently, has been packed to the brim. What do they serve? Why, sushi of course! Naturally with a side of hummus and french fries...
Here, I have found the meaning of life: Food. People aren't eating to live, they're living to eat. Times of day surround meals. Before breakfast. During lunch. Before dinner. After my midnight snack! At breakfast, the topic of discussion is lunch. At lunch, we reminisce about breakfast and anticipate dinner. And naturally, at dinner, we discuss tomorrow's breakfast.
I really can't be bothered to get up, walk somewhere (or drive, more likely) and go get something to eat. I'll just get it delivered. Oh, in some countries there are restaurants that don't deliver? How barbaric. I do wonder how they get by.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Latebird
So now that I've spent a day at home, shortened my 'working week'--I use the term quite loosely here--and effectively decreased my grand total of seventeen sick days a year to sixteen (which braniac decided that the average human being needs seventeen days for being sick a year?), I am hoping to get sick less often and use those sick days more often--for a good lie-in on a rainy Monday morning, when even the birds don't want to be chirping.
So what exactly makes birds so cheery in the morning? Are they chirping because they know they got the worm? Where are all the latebirds (as opposed to earlybirds)? Sleeping in, I suppose. The early bird not only loses the chance to sleep in, but also has to stomach an awful breakfast which he may very well live to regret. He is lonely from being the only bird with "early" status stamped on his beak, and on top of it all, has to spend his morning acting as a clock-radio. The latebird on the other hand, wakes up rested and content, and instead of having to hurriedly swallow an unsuspecting worm, sits down to a quiet breakfast of healthy cereal and the morning paper, quietly contemplating the day's events (the earlybird has no time for formalities, and furthermore, the worm expects to see the esophagus of said earlybird before lunch). The latebird is thankful that "Wake People Up. Be as Annoying as Possible" is not scrawled on his To-Do List. Thankful that he doesn't know what a To-Do List is.
Next time you hear someone say, "Come on, you know the early bird gets the worm!" just smile and say "I know" while secretly basking in the lifestyle of latebird life.
So what exactly makes birds so cheery in the morning? Are they chirping because they know they got the worm? Where are all the latebirds (as opposed to earlybirds)? Sleeping in, I suppose. The early bird not only loses the chance to sleep in, but also has to stomach an awful breakfast which he may very well live to regret. He is lonely from being the only bird with "early" status stamped on his beak, and on top of it all, has to spend his morning acting as a clock-radio. The latebird on the other hand, wakes up rested and content, and instead of having to hurriedly swallow an unsuspecting worm, sits down to a quiet breakfast of healthy cereal and the morning paper, quietly contemplating the day's events (the earlybird has no time for formalities, and furthermore, the worm expects to see the esophagus of said earlybird before lunch). The latebird is thankful that "Wake People Up. Be as Annoying as Possible" is not scrawled on his To-Do List. Thankful that he doesn't know what a To-Do List is.
Next time you hear someone say, "Come on, you know the early bird gets the worm!" just smile and say "I know" while secretly basking in the lifestyle of latebird life.
Monday, January 22, 2007
cake for thought...
Well hello world, and welcome to my life.
The purpose of this blog is to connect you to me and me to you and us to other worlds. And such. And to talk about cake of course. For today, at least. Chocolate. Foret Noire. Cheese. Marble. Upside-down. Sponge. Fruit. Christmas. Birthday. Banana. Ice-cream. The world of cake is big to say the least and if we look closely enough, I am sure the meaning of life is lurking somewhere under the copious layers of sugary icing. Take the time to enjoy a particularly delectable piece of flourless chocolate cake on a dreary London afternoon. Cake does not masquerade as something else, something essential or necessary but admits, not proudly nor defensively, that it is what it is. Something you can't resist, what begins as a one night stand with an unusually large piece of seven-layer chocolate fudge cake develops into an endless string of affairs, with the occasional unspoken romp with a lemon meringue pie. Don't lose your head over it, chocolate souffle will always be available the next day. Marie knew what she was talking about. What could be better than the champagne of water when it comes to thy daily bread?
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