It's Quiet...Too Quiet

After the chaos and upheaval of the past couple of years, some down time and prevailing quiet was the best thing for all of us.  Clearly, I can handle only so much of that nonsense before I start getting twitchy.  I had this nice, mellow job where I could read, do crossword puzzles or indulge my virtual hoarding prelidiction on Pinterest.  Drinking on the job was not only okey dokey, but part of the job duties when you run a bottle shop.  It was a good gig, didn't pay much, the hours were tailor made for someone as un-go gettery as me and I enjoyed it.  Things have been peaceful for a while, calm for everyone in the house and smooth sailing as far as the eye could see.

So I decided to throw a rock into the middle of it and take a high stakes (for me), high demand and high pressure job and take over as the general manager of a rudderless, chaotic and throughly mismanaged shitshow of a store.  Turning it around and rebuilding the reputation of this business are the two main expectations for me and I'm not entirely sure I know what the hell I'm doing.  I've done retail and I've done quick serve food but this is entirely uncharted territory for me but apparently taking a deep breath and jumping in is my best course of action.  Training out of town for two weeks and we're off to the races.  It's been a hell of a ride so far, but I think I'm actually enjoying myself.

It's been interesting from the get go, the interview was an entirely unique experience as I was totally in charge of that meeting.  I drove the bus from the start and the two people interviewing me seemed to have no problem with it, it was weird.  After the initial get to know you back and forth, I was asked if I had any questions and both seemed a bit taken aback when I flipped open my notebook to two pages of questions I had prepared.  My first question of "What kind of goals or benchmarks would I be expected to meet in my first six months?" Was met with what seemed like befuddlement followed by casting about for an answer.  They both seemed relieved when I said "Okay, we can come back to that later." And I figured, in for a penny, in for a pound and continued to steam ahead and show them all my cards.  There is a certain freedom in interviewing for a job you don't actually need, the pressure is completely off and you can absolutely be yourself.  It obviously did the trick because twenty minutes into the interview, the district manager (my now boss's boss) asked, rather incredulously, "Where the hell were you a year ago when we opened this store?"

That question made me pause for a minute before I answered her.  Where WAS I a year ago?  My answer to her was simply, "I wasn't the person you needed a year ago." And briefly explained about my parents' decline and deaths in a shocklingly short period of time, a life changing medical diagnosis and a whole lot of life piling in on me at once.  Reflecting on that later, I realized how true that simple statement was, I WASN'T what they would have needed a year ago but I absolutely am now.  I got involved in organizing and executing the biggest event my town as ever seen (by involved, I mean my best friend told me we were going to do a thing and we did).  In that year of brainstorming, planning and pulling it all together I rediscovered both a skill set and a passion for getting shit done.  Managing people, coming up with fresh ideas and getting people excited about acheiving a goal is something I am good at and I enjoy doing.  Planning that event was restorative, confidence building and made me into the person who is ready to take on this kind of a challenge.  Thank God for best friends who drag you, kicking and screaming, out of your comfort zone and into a whole new thing that turns into another whole new thing.

Here We Go Again

It's that time of the year again.  It's not pumpkin spice season, it's not Halloween or Thanksgiving or Election time, it's hunting season.  It's the most wonderful time of the year, according to my beloved and our offspring...one of them anyway.  Eldest boy is a bit more like his mama, hunting is awesome but I really, really don't want to do it.  Son the Younger has been an enthusiastic participant in this yearly adventure since he was about eight years old.  

Hunting season is a multi phase event, each phase is distinct and as important as the hunt itself. The following is a chronicle of this annual undertaking:

Phase One: Discussion

This phase consists of an extensive rehash of the previous year's hunt, topics include:

Deer seen

 Trail cam photos referenced

     Annual claim that deer are living in the back yard

     Occasional claim that a bear is living in the back yard

     My interjection that someone is drunk or insane

     Topic tabled

Deer not seen

     Lengthy exchange about deer others have seen

Deer seen and not shot at

Deer seen, shot at and missed

      ALWAYS a gigantic, monster, Bigfoot buck that can read and drive a car

Deer seen, shot at and hit

     Quality of hit

     Crappiness of missed shots

     Spirited debate about who had the crappier miss

     Consultation with other hunting party members about the crappiness of same

     One party deciding the other party and the rest of the hunting party are full of shit

     Discussion Tabled after offense is taken

Deer hit with Elder’s car that one year

     Elder is still salty about it

     Reminder that he has a different car now

     Description of that deer grows exponentially with every retelling

Other wildlife seen

     Usually mundane stuff, birds and such

     Discussion of asshole squirrels that warn the deer away

     Guilty admission of unloading the shotgun at offending asshole squirrel

     Spirited insult throwing that one or the other didn't even hit the squirrel

Poop sightings

     Debate over origin of sighted poop

     It’s not a bear, Bigfoot or dinosaur

     Might be a bear

     Probably a moose

     Turns out it's a dog

     I cannot believe how long the poop discussion has gone on

     Debate over use of the term “scat”

          Stop it, you’re not Jack Hanna

          Debate over the supremacy of Jack Hanna vs. Marlon Perkins vs. Steve Irwin vs. Wild Kratts

Phase Two: Strategy

This phase usually involves analysis of weather forecasts, trail cam video, water levels in ditches, maps, satellite imaging and input from Stephen Hawking.

Who

     How many said they’re going

     How many are actually going

     Someone is bringing their cousin/nephew/co worker/idiot brother in law/some guy

          Detailed dissemination of everything we know about the potential interloper

          Assumptions made, debated and discarded

          Grumpy acceptance of new person

     The traditional and ceremonial insistence that I come hunting this year

          I politely decline

          My beloved pushes the issue

          I decline, less politely this time

          My beloved insists

          Son The Younger suggests dad shut up now

          Dad doesn’t shut up

          I decline through clenched teeth with a hissed threat to drag him to Lowe’s again

          My beloved drops it

What

     The recitation of what we need vs what we have begins

     This is repeated three to twenty times over the next two weeks as items are stored in multiple locations that make no sense to anyone but my Beloved

     I refrain from pointing out that the large ORANGE Rubbermaid tote purchased by me for the hunting gear several years ago is currently occupied only by one pair of boots of unknown provenance

     A list is not made, my Beloved insists he’ll remember everything

    Things are forgotten or double counted

     The same question is asked repeatedly

     The mere suggestion of writing things down is treated as an insult

     Three more boxes of shells are purchased

          The three boxes from last year are found

          As are the three from the year before

     Buck scent (yes, a bottle of pee) is not located

          Bottles are bought

          Other bottles are found

           We have many bottles of pee

          I again question my life choices as two of the members of my household have a lively debate about deer pee.

     What is happening here?

     A list is made, lots of muttering and dirty looks, I try not to look too smug

     The Blind is examined

          87 things are found wrong

         Options are discussed

          New blinds are priced out

           Blind is reassessed

           Duct tape is deployed

          The blind is actually fine

     The Guns are brought out

          Commence lecture about cleaning 

          Commence lecture about touching

          Commence lecture about shooting

          Commence lecture about deer

          I Commence drinking wine

               Continue drinking wine

               Fall asleep and insult my Beloved

     Blaze Orange Bonanza

           Six hooded sweatshirts

          Two vests

           Seven and a half pairs of gloves

          Four sets of long underwear

          I question the necessity of blaze orange underwear and am shot a quelling look

          Eight pair of socks

               I do not say a thing

          127 hats, I swear to God

          Eleven full face masks

All of this is hung outside in the universal sign that hunters live here, I think there is a deeper code here but cannot get confirmation.

     Commence lecture about neutral smells

     I do not roll my eyes during the no laundry/no shower/no shampoo talk.

          Yearly reminder from me that no shower = no physical contact

          I’ve insulted him again, not sorry

     I put my foot down about the purchase of another blaze orange item.

          Three more show up the next day

          Both deny any knowledge

          They’re colluding, I know it

How

     Can’t tell you a thing, my eyes have glazed over and my brain is currently rejecting any hunting related talk.

     My Beloved just asked me a question, he’s looking expectant

          I panic and say yes

          The surprise and delight on my Beloved’s face tells me I’m probably in deep trouble

          I just agreed to buy a license so we can get an extra deer

          The implications are horrifying

               I will have to go

               We could potentially get THREE deer

               I'm going to have to empty the chest freezer

               I'm going to have to buy a new chest freezer

          Steps must be taken

               I need a way out of this

               My brain whirls with ideas

                    Coming up with nothing

                    I'm struck with inspiration

          Sacrifices must be made

               This is every man for himself

               I point out that Elder Son has never been hunting

               The look of betrayal flung my way does not sway me

               My Beloved is delighted at the thought

               I have no regrets

               I'm going to have to make amends at some point but today is not that day

Phase Three: Preparation (you thought the preceding was the prep? Silly rabbits)

This phase covers food shopping, the Laying Out Of The Gear, Blind Assembly and a lot of storming around the house in one’s underwear while attempting to communicate to the second floor of the house from either the garage or the basement.  This is a delicate phase and must be navigated with caution, diplomacy and quite a bit of finesse as the participants are nervous and easily startled.

Food Shopping

     This is usually the extent of my involvement, I buy food and cook it

     The wilds of the grocery store is as far as I venture

     Trust me, it’s not all that civilized in those days before 

          Bread, lunch meat and certain snacks are at a premium and their purchase can only be done in dark alleys out of the back of trucks from sketchy box boys and carry outs with a bad attitude and an ax to grind against the man.

     Portable food that doesn't smell like anything is not easily achieved

     Baked goods are treated as manna from the Gods

     Noisy food is banned

     Nothing can smell like anything, this cannot be overstated.

     The list of specifications is extensive

          Fine, Fig Newtons, one banana, soy milk and lefse it is

         Don't give me a look, that’s all that fits within your goddamned parameters

Blind Assembly

     This takes place the week before and involves a lot of argument that I am not privy to, I have no information on this ritual

     Someone usually comes home and stomps upstairs for a while

The Laying of The Gear

     This is done over the course of the three days (or weeks, who can say?) before The Hunt

     Finding ammunition in the bathroom and deer pee in the bookcase is not considered strange during this phase

     The dining room table disappears under a pile of orange accessories

     Long guns on the couch is par for the course

     Panic ensues when the key for the gun locks is temporarily misplaced

     Hence, the shouting up the stairs while in underwear

     My work done, the food laid in, I'm for bed

Phase Four: The Hunt

The Wee Hours

     They’re up and moving before God is awake to head off into the woods

     Despite the elaborate and extensive preparations, many questions seem to linger

     Many, many trips up and down the stairs

     Seriously, stop turning the hall light on when my door is open

          Please shut the door if you need the hall light

          Please turn the light off before you leave

          That does it, light bulb removed

               Now the light switch is being flipped on and off repeatedly

               OH GOD NO He’s looking for the bulb

               He’s standing next to the bed, isn’t he?

               He KNOWS

               Bulb? What bulb?

               WHY DO YOU NEED IT?

          Muttering

          The distinct crash that indicates a fall down the stairs

               More muttering and some very creative swearing

     Many trips in and out of the garage

     Door slam

     Into the house again

     Back to garage

     Door slam

     There’s the back door

     Door slam

     I'm in hell

     HOW MANY DOORS DOES THE CAR ACTUALLY HAVE????

          Twelve. The number is twelve based on car door slams

     The car has started, we’re so close.

     Don’t turn the car off! Why are you turning it off?

     You were almost gone. Go!

     Garage door slam

     House door slam

          Someone is getting the guns

     Car starts again

     They’re away!

     Time to go back to sleep

          …

          …

     What’s that noise?

          They’re back?

          They’re back.

          Car door slam

          Garage door slam

          House door slam

          Muttering

          Light switch flipped on and off and on...and off

                More muttering

           Ammunition is located and taken

           House door slam

           Garage door slam

           Car door slam

           Please God let them be gone for real this time

           … 

           … 

           … 

          Okay. Gone.

                But I’m awake now.

                It's 4:30

                That sucks

There you have it, this is what takes place in my house every year during the run up to hunting.  My Beloved is a low key guy that turns into a complete lunatic once a year but as he tolerates and even embraces my everyday insanity, I totally roll with it.  There are only a few things that he gets this worked up about, hunting with his boy (or, this year, boys) is one of his very favorite things. My kind of crazy is all day, every day, his comes only once a year. 

Disaster Kitchen

I want to cook like Trisha Yearwood, Giada, Ree The Pioneer Woman and a host of other TV chefs.  I have accepted the reality that I never shall.  That's just fine, if ever I get my own cooking show, it's going to be called "Disaster Kitchen" and it will show every step of the new recipe process, not just the ready for prime time bits.  Let me preface all of this by saying that until about seven years ago I was a competent, but not particularly inspired or skilled cook.  Then I quit smoking and needed to fill the time between getting home from work and dinner time. That was the hardest cigarette to give up for some reason so I decided to make food that kept me busy for the danger time.  I needed recipes that required attention to detail, I wanted to chop and dice and simmer and blanch and all those cool things that I watched on Saturday mornings.  In my head, that dangerous phrase formed, the one that has been the downfall of greater men than I. "How hard can it be?"

Harder than you think, it turns out.  I knew the basics, I could make hamburger gravy and (boxed) mashed potatoes, I was a whiz at making Kraft Mac and cheese all fancy by adding a few chunks of Velveeta and sticking it in the oven for ten minutes and my addition of a shake each of garlic and red pepper flakes to a jar of spaghetti sauce bordered on genius, but that was pretty much where my culinary inspiration ended.  This was it, my time had come and I was about to become master of my kitchen domain.  Or I was about to get my ass kicked by a metric fuckton of potatoes.

At that point in time, my beloved worked for a company that, among other things, makes French fries.  This meant he had access to huge bags of potatoes for just a couple of bucks.  I'm talking 50 to 100 pound bags for $5, needless to say, we were the go to whenever our kids' sports teams wanted to do a baked potato fundraiser.  This meant that on any given weekend, my kitchen was host to enough potatoes to have saved my people from the Famine.  Occasionally, my beloved would randomly bring home 50 pounds of spuds just for the sheer joy of eating our body weight in potato.  Slowly but surely, I started to notice that friends and family had begun to avoid eye contact and declined invitations to the house for dinner.  As it turns out, a menu comprised solely of potato dishes wears on the palate and the belly after a while.  Perhaps finding potatoes in their purses and slipped into their coat pockets put them off but I was desperate to unload the damn things as my house did not come equipped with a root cellar.  

Determined to maintain healthy, non potato based relationships with the people in my life, I needed to figure out what to do with mass quantities of red potatoes ASAP.  Searching YouTube yielded a blanch and freeze method of preservation, so I set about peeling and cutting a pile of potatoes the size of a VW Beetle.  I can see why this was used as punishment back in the day.  There are few tasks quite as tedious that cannot be done mindlessly as you risk slicing off layers of skin and flesh from your fingers as the price of inattention.  The onerous chore completed, I set about the blanching process, this involves the biggest pot you can find (borrow one, seriously, because if you buy one, you will likely never use it again and it will stare accusingly at you from whatever dark cabinet or basement shelf you exile it to after this one ill conceived experiment), a shitload of salt and a week's worth of water.  You get that giant pot of salted water to a lusty boil and, risking life and limb, dunk batch after batch of potatoes in to cook partway.  Part way being the keyword here, as what what actually means is "Just cook them all the way because what you saw me do on YouTube is nothing you're going to be able to accomplish in your entire pathetic life, you silly little amateur."  Then you let them cool, vacuum seal them and pop the tidy potato packages in your freezer for convenient use whenever you need them!

Wrong, you've never been so wrong in your life.  Two weeks later, you'll go down to the basement freezer to begin your new life of preserving your own food only to find how terribly wrong this whole process can go.  You see, if the potatoes aren't blanched for EXACTLY the right amount of time, something horrible happens in the freezer.  Your careful vacuum sealing can't save it, your best intentions are not going to help you or the stacks of now gray/green/black/blue/whatthehellisthatcolor potatoes that cringe away from the light of the open freezer door like some kind of swamp dwelling, previously unknown creature that will forever haunt your dreams.  Twenty five carefully labeled, stacked and sealed packages stared defiantly back at me, mocking my inexperience and daring me to step into the ring with my own kitchen for another go round. So "blanching" actually means "just cook the damn things, you'll thank me for it later".  So noted.

We started our own compost in the back yard that day so it wasn't a complete waste.

My sister in law offered to come over and make salsa some months later, she's done it before and it's easier than I'd ever imagine.  That's what she told me, that's what she said.  And, I can use that giant pot that I've done nothing but move from place to place because I can't seem to find a permanent, out of my way, WHY IS IT SO DAMN BIG home for it.  So, salsa, is it?  She, my beloved, her beloved and I spent an enjoyable couple of hours chopping, seeding and prepping our tomatoes, onions, peppers and the rest while imbibing in a beer or maybe some bloody Marys with beer backs...my memory is a little fuzzy for some reason.  Brenda claimed that we didn't need to boil the jars for canning, we just need to run them through the hi temp cycle in the dishwasher and that serves the same purpose.  Having never canned anything in my life, I demurred to her experience and superior knowledge which turned out to be kind of helping her mother in law and seeing someone do it on TV once.

DO NOT DO IT THIS WAY.  Not ever.  Also, make damn sure you fill the jars almost to the brim.  Why, you ask?  Because the dishwasher method creates too much of a vacuum seal that eventually compromises the structural integrity of the lids and they pop.  And by "pop", I mean they fail completely, make a noise that I don't not have the vocabulary to describe and launch the contents of the jar skyward until they inevitably encounter the barrier to the open sky that is your kitchen ceiling.  You and your helpers will stare at a ceiling that now resembles nothing as much as a murder scene for a very, very long time as the reality of what just transpired takes a loooooong time to register to a vodka and beer soaked brain.  Once it does, however, much hilarity ensues and the stain never quite goes away.  Side note, tracking down and bathing your now salsa covered cat who was unlucky enough to have been in the kitchen at the moment of impact takes a lot of coaxing, chasing and eventual capture that involves brooms, tennis rackets and a bedsheet you're willing to sacrifice for the cause.  He also won't speak to you for several days and when he does, you know you'll never be completely forgiven for this transgression to his person.

We did manage to seal the remaining jars properly and the salsa was delicious.

Fine, we'll start a little smaller than 500 potatoes and a couple dozen jars of salsa.  Let's take a whack at something we can eat right away and enjoy the fruits of our labor immediately. I know, poached eggs!  I always considered poached eggs to be a super fancy, special occasion kind of food that it never even occurred to me to try making at home as it seemed solely the domain of seasoned chefs and Saturday morning Food Network stars.  I set my pot of water to a hearty simmer, got it swirling to the recommended velocity and carefully cracked an egg into the vortex. I could see immediately that this was not going well, the white of the egg spun wildly out of the grasp of the vortex to morph into jelly like tentacles that slithered to the edge of the saucepan in a desperate attempt to escape.  The timer dinged and I gamely scooped what I knew was not a beautifully compact poached egg out of the water that was now cloudy and speckled with bits of gluey, semi cooked egg.  It's okay, I know what I did wrong that time.  Attempt number two was equally as unsuccessful as the first but my determination was not to be swayed by two failed attempts.  Number three had me hopeful that this would work until the poached looking egg disintegrated into the water as I lifted it out, rendering the boiling water into an Irish girl version of egg drop soup (see what I did there?).  Attempts four through nine involved vinegar added to the water as recommended by several chef types but yielded soggy jelly like messes that smelled strongly of pickles, this will not do.  By now, I have abandoned even the pretense of wanting the damned eggs and am committed exclusively to the principle of the project I had set for myself.  To hell with ever eating the damn things, I WILL WIN, THESE EGGS WILL NOT DEFEAT ME.  Eighteen eggs, prolific swearing and three eggs that may or may not have been thrown at the wall (much to the dog's delight as he happily licked away the evidence of my burst of temper) I came to the conclusion that the perfect poached egg was a myth, some kind of culinary unicorn that only exists in story and song and I would never achieve this magical food in my lifetime.

One week later, I stumbled upon a poached egg cheat that actually did produce that perfection I had only dreamed possible. A ramekin, lined with plastic wrap, sprayed with nonstick spray, the egg nestled inside and tied into a little bundle with a bit of string and tossed into a pot of boiling water for three minutes and there is was, sexy, silky, creamy perfection in a gorgeous little bundle.  It was glorious and I made it myself.  The angels raised their voices in a magical chorus to this vision of beauty as a ray of golden light shone upon my plate as I raised my fork to pierce the lovely yolk, freeing it to fill every nook and cranny of the waiting English muffin, toasted for just this occasion. I took a moment to record my hard fought success with the perfect picture to share with all those who ever doubted me and watched in horror as my precious, gorgeous, perfect egg slid off the plate on its English muffin raft to the floor and the waiting jaws of my eternally patient yellow lab.  That was it, it was over, I was done.  I can't reproduce this result, or can I?

Turns out I can, and I do on a regular basis because poached eggs really are that good.

There you have it, the basis of my cooking show would show all the disasters in the first half and THEN the carefully crafted successful execution in the second half. I think it would be a smash hit.