When someone cooks for you, the food can tell you where they came from, what’s important to them, what influenced them, and what they dream of being and doing. On one plate, everything from the ingredients to the cooking methods to the service style can give you a veritable masterclass in the entire culture the dish came from.
Then there’s people like me who try to write about all of that and what’s more, make a buck off of it. It takes no small amount of hubris to assume you can summarize a multimedia, multi-sensory experience to words on a page. Sometimes the only thing that encourages me in trying to do so is that 1. Someone has to, and 2. People have.
If you had asked a lot of Portland small businesspeople back in 2019 about the future of Portland’s lauded, Wild-West food scene, they would have told you that food carts and food pods were on their way out.
Alas, they say, the laws and fees required by the city to maintain such a business (some seemingly to protect brick-and-mortar businesses, others just nickel and dimeing,) as well as rising property values encouraging landowners to kick out food pods in favor of development had made running a food cart involve a bit more investment, anxiety, and heartache than a lot of prospective entrepreneurs were prepared for. The rise of delivery services- accommodating of which is sometimes overwhelming for the small team of a common food truck- have also deprived newer food carts of the all-important foot traffic exposure they get from people coming into a pod to visit more-established neighbors.
Then COVID-19 came to town, and food carts were the best and safest way to do business.
If you grew up in the late 80s and 90s like I did (and probably before,) your parents warned you not to talk to strangers. Strangers were strangers. They could be anything or anyone. They could hurt you, or steal from you. They could follow you home.
Then we grew up, and we quickly found that strangers are friends you haven’t met yet. They can also lead you toward your next great steps in life.
It’s the start of my weekend. After managing two weddings, wholesale, and retail baking, I am friggin’ exhausted and ready to relax.
That’s why I’m awake at 4:30 AM. I let myself sleep in a bit, and I think what I need first after the last couple weeks is just some quiet time. On my back porch, I’m sitting under our porch light wearing my pajamas and a fuzzy hoodie. My legs are wrapped in a Mexican blanket Em and I got for our last beach trip that still feels warm and smells sandy.
I can hear the traffic on nearby streets, my neighbors air-conditioner, and my fingers clacking on a keyboard. Normally I like having music or a sound generator on when I write to help me focus. Right now though that would spoil all this.
The sun is starting to rise in the East, and the moon is still hanging high in front of me. If I put on shoes and got started soon, I might be able to reach Mount Tabor in time to see the sun come up over Mt. Hood.
I’m glad I live here. I’m glad I’m awake. I’m glad it’s my weekend, and I’m glad it’s quiet for now.