The Case for the Class Clown

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Stepping back into the kitchen after time away feels like stepping into a warm bath. That is, up until you wonder how the water got hot and why it’s getting hotter from the bottom up.

Coming back from South Carolina and the first one in kitchen to start the day like usual, I found myself sighing with relief once I got into the familiar work again after the requisite “let’s see what I have to work with” anxiety.

The kitchen still stood. My team carried on well enough and even set me up a bit so I could slide back in to the groove. You really can’t beat a well-trained reliable assistant when you want to take time off. I came back to the same kind of work, the same personalities and difficulties, and the same serene focus I had taken a break from as much as anything. “Serene focus” sounds better than “conscious detachment” when I talk to my therapist. Positive framing and all.

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A Needed Break

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It rained last night. The tiny puddles on the furniture of the screened-in patio tell that clearly enough, and there is still the smell of petrichor in the air beneath the smell of pine in the pre-dawn humidity. I’m back on the East Coast, visiting my in-laws in South Carolina, and the weather of the southeast is both oppressive and comforting- like an old friend who can’t help but keep mentioning how much both of you have changed.

As the previous two weeks of work came to a close- preparing for a massive event, the increasing tempo of business, and preparing my small team (and the kitchen itself) for my absence- I dragged myself into the first of two too-cheap-for-their-price plane seats and quoted the Magnus Archives again. “I have done my work well, and none may ask more of me.”

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On The Side of the Angels

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It’s a day off, and I’m out walking. An early morning stroll up and down Mount Tabor wasn’t enough when it was nice and cool. Instead, I convinced myself that the best way to get around on an 81 degree day would be to walk down Belmont and Hawthorne, stop for lunch somewhere, and then camp out in a comfortable (ideally air-conditioned) bar to write in while I wait for an appointment.

The Kara-age Don from the new Japanese place was very good- strips of lightly fried but heavily spiced chicken thigh atop a bowl of pillowy and acidic sushi rice was at once refreshing and cripplingly filling, even with an ice-cold Sapporo beer to wash it down. Stepping back out into the sun, my legs felt like sacks of lead. I didn’t want to walk anymore as much as a nap… but that wouldn’t do.

An ice-pop and a shady conversion with an old friend got me more-or-less to my destination- the taproom of a brewery near my appointment with good beer, giant fans (and giant windows. No air-conditioning a space THIS big), and a chilly marble-veneered bar to rest my arms on as I type.

Today is good. I’m walking in the sun, drinking beer, thinking about food, and seeing God. What more could you ask for?

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An Update of Sorts

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“I’ve got a school boy heart, a novelist’s eye,
stout sailors legs and a license to fly.”

– Jimmy Buffet, “School Boy Heart”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about how I manage my creative life, it’s that I still tend to have too many irons in the fire at once and that choosing which projects to work on feels like picking favorites. I always wind up emotionally attached and guilty.

I’m sitting next to my friend Tom’s truck, having just scarfed down a weekend PREC and spent the better part of the morning exercising and deciding how best to move through the rest of the day. There are the typical chores to do, laundry and attending to the hot mess that is my nightstand in particular. The drive to socialize and avoid extended isolation as well, partially being allayed now with the warm sun, quiet company of a public space, and the classic blues and jazz coming through Tom’s speakers.

The will to write is strong, but the focus- or choice of focus rather- is not. Rereading some food writing has invigorated me, and writing this blog continues to at the very least be good practice and keeping me in the habit. I have several projects overdue, however, and I need to hunker down and pick one of them- ANY of them- to lock myself into.

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Sandwiches I Have Known and Loved

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They can be basic. They can be opulent. They can be artisanal, antique, unwieldy, oysgeputz, offensive, unfathomable, and unconquerable. But they are always, unquestionably, themselves- and require no explanation.

Sandwiches are beautiful things- a convenience food par excelence– and here are some of my favorites.

John Montagu, the 4th Earl of Sandwich- aristocrat, gambling addict, and apparently a culinary genius.
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