Why Do All Holidays Revolve Around Food And/Or My Mental Instability?
Posted Nov 29 2008 12:20pm
To torture me. That's why. If I'm not finding myself in the throes of some Restaraunt Week, It's Thanksgiving, or Chanukkah, or Christmas, or Valentines day, or Easter, or Passover, or something where people pretend to make food by buying food that I make, which means I never make my own food, which means I eat Hot Pockets.
In 2005-2006 I hated overpriced cooking ware and teaching classes to overpriced couples who OOOOO'd and AAAAAH'd over my 25 dollar vegetable peeler as I deftly flayed pears and peaches for tart tatins and used words like "carmelization point" and "laminate dough" when seriously?? All they needed was some Pepperidge Farm Puff pastry and a peeler I stock in quantity at 2 bucks a pop, because that piece of plastic crap is the best ever. I did love my co-workers, who never made me fetch heavy sets of ridiculously expensive stainless steel cook sets, because they wanted me to keep cooking for all the houswives so they didn't have to. And the discount. oooh..the discount......and my KitchenAid Pro 600 with the 6 quart bowl, my lovely mixer that will suffice until one day a man loves me enough to buy me a 20 quart Hobart.
In 2004-2005 I hated bread, which meant I hated all mankind, as Atkins or no, everyone was eating the bread. I hated dinner rolls and challah and sourdough twists and brioche and baguettes and rustic rolls and especially a certain little semolina encrusted roll, thank you very much, Bar In a Big Park In The Middle Of NYC. I hated 3 and 4 star NYC eateries who made me make the bread at a wage I could never afford to ever eat the bread. And don't get me started on the hours. But I loved the kitchen, staffed by orphan girls and gay boyfriends and born again Sri Lankins and death metal listening Puerto Ricans and crazy ex Coast Guard floater retrievers. That job ended because something fell out? Forced out? A kidney perhaps? 120 degrees on a cool day..anyone? No? Just me? Nuts you say? Why thank you.
In 2003-2004 I hated baguettes ( I'm consistent) and cakes and tarts and espresso machines and kicthens run by latin males and front of house run by TOTALLY INSANE over-edumacated former harpsichordists and TOTALLY INSANER Greek real estate tycoon ladies. That job ended with me at the EEOC because something fell out? I passed out? Something we know now was brain related? I forget. I had brain surgery. I'm allowed
In 2002-2003 I hated cookies with an all consuming passion..cookies that tasted like faux butter but were intricately iced, cookies hard as rocks because icing them intricately required a few days as they stiffened and dried. Cookies that sold for over 50 bucks for 16..16 stale, yucky, gorgeous whimsy cookies, in a kitchen run by latin males and front of house run by another nutty name dropping botox hopping Greek lady.
In 2001-2002 I hated my 3 and 4 star fancy shmancy eatery, where I would cry when I awoke at 4 am and cry when I came home by 6 pm and cry while I tried to sleep and cry while took showers and cry on the subway when I came home, because I'd lost 20 pounds in a month and my kidneys wanted to fail and my desserts had to be perfect beyond perfection and I had bowtorch burns on the side of my face and heat stroke during Restaruant Week, but I did it because I was young and naive and blown away that I was talented enough to be at Fancy Shmancy and have been hired from my externship, and I knew I had to suck it up and just do it, because food is my life and my life was worth fighting for. Well, except when that life almost killed me, fo sho', and I said never again will I step into this world, in this way, because I already have.
And we find ourselves at the latest chapter, 2006-2007, where I taught people some crap, conned them outta some dough, flung some fancy chocolates, because gee whiz golly, my head felt funny this past year, more so than normal, and I was kind of stumbly and dropping things, more so than normal, and I said to myself maybe you're just burned out. But nah, I was just brained out.
Last years bunny stomping pain has given way to this years bunny stomping rage, a rage where I hate retail more than I hate crazy front of house ladies, because on holidays-shmolidays, I can't educate and talk about cocoa beans and solids and percentages and our uniquely long conching process and traditional belgian chocolate and the amazing factory I saw in europe and royal warrants and cocoa butter and snap and temper and dipping and molding and what a true true truffle is. NO. I tell people to kindly remove the toddler from the display of carefully conched criollo concentrated Easter Wabbits, because if they break those handmade babies that get flown in from Belgium every week, they sure as shite are gonna have to buy them.
And why the hell am I the only one coming in two hours before I'm supposed to to make up these damn bunny bags and tie the damn bunny bows with my damn Chiari fingers?
AND WHITE CHOCOLATE ISN'T CHOCOLATE
And I will NOT get the broken Bunny of all Bunniness off of the top shelf, because I can't lift my arms above my head ( did you not NOTICE the ZIPPER running down my NECK?) but oh wait..I have to, because my boss is gone this week and on vacation next week!!! Did I mention I had brain surgery? And the broken bunny they want from the top shelf is WHITE CHOCOLATE and they want it HALF PRICE and WHO would leave her store staffed by ME Easter Week?
She isn't Greek though. She's Belgian. And when she returns, I am going to little bunny foo foo myself right out the door, because she was supposed to get extra help when I had surgery and never did, and whines when I have to leave for PT or have to pass out or have seizures and make her open the store.
OOOooooOOOOoooOOOOOOoooOOOOOOoooOOOO there's gonna be a smackdown, Puglet style.
Oh yeah. Happy most religious and faith filled holiday, or something like that.