Mom update: some things--like her gut--are improving, albeit more slowly than she would like. However, her magnesium and something else are low/off, and, as they're related to kidney function, the doc doesn't want to send her home. On top of that, her congestive heart failure has returned, which I figured out a couple of days ago from the constant cough, and I don't imagine they're going to want to send her home until that's stabilized, too. So, yeah, it could be better. It could be worse, but it could definitely be better.
Lots of running around yesterday: before noon, I had gone to the bank, the post office, and Whole Paycheck and gotten a mammogram (a.k.a. puting my tits in a vise), as well as talked to mom and a couple of friends. (Sunday I talked to mom in the morning, then didn't speak to another human being or even leave my apartment for the rest of the day.) In the afternoon I went for a zen shiatsu session, where the practitioner suggested that liver stagnation could be related to/causing the irregularity of my menstrual cycle. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd say that a 16-day cycle is a little on the short side. And you know how various sources say that your "entire" menstrual flow is 3 to 4 ounces? I say HAH! and HAH! again to that. It's just tiresome, you know? And I find it completely annoying that the "western" medical websites (a) pathologize it, by calling it "dysfunctional uterine bleeding," and (b) only have hormones to offer--either in the form of HRT or oral contraceptives, which are pretty much the same thing--as a way of addressing it. Nearly every woman is going to go through this, one way or another, and you'd think there'd be better ways of thinking about it and addressing it (and don't get me started on the pink and lilac mooniness of the other extreme; it makes me wanna smack someone, and they still recommend hormones). Seeing as how my insurance won't pay for anything related to it (see the exclusion related to dysfunctional uterine bleeding), I might go ahead and try acupuncture again.
I've also been realizing that some of the mood swinging is hormonally related; I was never one for PMS or moodiness, so this is a little strange. It tends to be an outburst/outbreak of tears, followed within a day or so by bleeding or spotting, which is how I'm getting the notion that it's hormonal. It's a relief to realize it, in the sense that it makes sense of the outbursts, but it's also strange, too, because the moods aren't related to what's going on in my head so much as what's going on in my body--not how we (or I, anyway) normally think of moods. For that matter, it's often not even a "mood," in the sense of a state of mind/being that lasts for a day or more, it's just this sudden outburst. I do think it's exacerbated by my long weeks at work, in that it's most common at the end of one of those.
Despite my best intentions, there were also things I did not do yesterday: I did not send the divorce papers to Chuck (though I sent an email this morning asking if he wanted them), and I did not send any emails to university publishers. In both cases, it's my own fear, of one kind or another, that prevented it; I've got the papers more or less done, and I've got a resume and email text for the publishers, so it really is fear. But I'm okay with that. I know I'll do both things, sooner rather than later, maybe even this week.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Cowbells Ahoy
First off, thank you Orange for your encouraging words; in fact Mom sounded better this morning than she did yesterday. Though she's still suffering from the diarrhea, the cramps have gone away, and they're giving her good bacteria to help repopulate her gut. She's not getting much sleep, of course, and she wants to go home.
In other news, yesterday featured lots and lots of cowbell, as predicted.
I'd told Bossman I'd show up at 6:30, but managed to get there by 5:50--he was just mixing dough, though, and said he had nothing for me because I was early. Fine, I said, I'll pound my butter, which I did, and then I made the rest of the miniature chocolate/fresh fruit tarts (we sold, let's see, nearly 27 of them, in three days, at about four bucks apiece). As I finished those, the grain dough was ready to be cut up--this many at this weight for epis; this many at this weight for something else; and the rest at 3#12 (i.e., 3 pounds, 12 ounces) for rolls, some of which would be torpedos, some of which would be round, and some of which would be "rustic," i.e., square-ish. Each batch of dough goes through several stages: it's mixed, it rests for awhile (which allows the yeast to grow and, depending on how long it rests, a certain amount of fermentation to occur), it gets folded (dumped on the table and literally stretched and folded in on itself; it's similar to the "punching down" you find in regular cookbooks) one or more times. When it's time for shaping, we cut the batch into the appropriate-sized pieces and each piece is rounded into a ball (gently) and put onto a board to rest again for a little while (maybe 20 minutes?). After that rest, it's shaped in some way--put through a shaping machine, or shaped into its final loaf form; some loaves get coated with something by rolling the loaf on a wet towel and then rolled in the coating (sesame seeds; semolina; cracked wheat). It rises for awhile, then gets slashed and baked.
The square rolls are cut up in the Dutchess. Our Dutchess is a cross between the one at the top and the next one down on the left; it's on wheels, so it can live in the basement and come up via the elevator, and it's about 300 years old (okay, probably 30, but it looks older). We only use the 36-press, and we use it for cookies, rolls, and scones. For those of you who haven't worked in a kitchen or bakery, I should point out that batch sizes for many of our products are based on the capacity of one or more of the machines that will be used on it at some point. We also have a Fortuna divider and rounder that looks exactly like the one on that page; it was delivered to the bakery on the day Bossman's older daughter was born. And, as a matter of fact, the rolls that weren't fated for the Duchess were fated for the Fortuna, which creates round rolls, and some would have a trip through a shaper as well (I can't find a picture; basically, it takes a rounded bit of dough and turns it into a torpedo-shaped bit of dough). At one point, the torpedo-shaper got kind of gunked up, and it eventually required a temporary replacement of a belt.
I don't remember the order in which I did everything, but, in addition to cutting up the grain dough, I cut up sourdough for rolls; helped round up the raisin fennel; shaped some sourdough loaves while Bossman fixed the torpedo-shaper; shaped the raisin fennel; cut up the olive dough; cut up the tomato dough; put the grain rolls through the Duchess; put more grain rolls through the Fortuna and then the torpedo shaper; put the sourdough rolls through the Fortuna and torpedo shaper; and put the olive and tomato rolls through the Fortuna. You'll notice "cut up the croissant dough" isn't on that list--which began to worry me, eventually. Luckily, as noted, Lole had agreed to come in even though it was his day off, and we could not have done it without him. He had his own list of things to do, though, until I finally whined enough around 11:00 or 11:30 such that Bossman let him cut up the croissant dough. He eventually laminated, too (at which he's getting steadily better; the plain croissants yesterday were quite beautiful, and that was all his lamination). Luckily we only had six pieces yesterday (about 90 pounds of dough).
After my break (at about 1:00, I think), I eventually started shaping croissants. I didn't have Lole for that, mostly, which was fine with me. I was trying to get him out of there so he could sign a new lease, but his 3:00 departure ended up being delayed until 4:00, in part because a customer complained about the custard cups Lole had made in the morning and he ended up remaking them. (It's not clear that they were as underbaked as the customer claimed, but it was just easier to remake them.) Somewhere along the line I called the Tart's restaurant, because they had not faxed their breakfast pastry order for the coming week (they're supposed to fax it on Friday, or, when they're being particularly considerate, Thursday; their order lets me know how many of their croissants I need to have in the freezer for the weekend); they STILL hadn't faxed it by the time I left, so Bossman and I took pity on them and put out a couple dozen for delivery this morning. I was tempted to not send anything--nothing like a little object lesson to get your point across--but settled for hoping that they needed way more than we sent.
I finally got out of there around 5:30, went home, showered, and then went off to meet Lole and Lissa and her husband and drink good beer. I stayed out a little too late--I stuck around for an additional beer after those guys left--and I never did get around to eating anything, and I had an attack of sorrow and sadness on the way home, but it was fun to get out. Next time I go out with those guys I want to hear more from Lissa's husband; we kind of monopolized the conversation with bakery talk.
Long though the day was, it was good, too. Although I still feel like Bossman lowballed me, and I'm still looking for something else, it's not in me to not work hard when hard work is what is needed--and, as I'm sure is clear, I like him personally as well as professionally, and I just plain like the work. He hasn't quite figured out that if he wants to have someone around who can do all the things that I can do (and that Lole either can do or will be able to do soon enough), he's gonna have to pay for that. Not necessarily a whole lot, either--$12 or $13 an hour would be in range, and $15 would seal the deal. Certainly he has to pay the bakers more than he pays the people who work the counter (which, in the case of a couple of counter people, isn't the case now). He gets away with not doing so because the Mexican guys aren't unhappy enough--and wouldn't be sufficiently valued elsewhere--to leave; they also may not realize just how good they are. (If Brad comes back full-time, though, all bets are off; I think the Mexican guys would leave.) Essentially, if he wants someone who can laminate like nobody's business, and mix or cut up dough, and make fancy-ass tarts, and even run the bakery when he's not around, he's going to have to pay for that, or he's going to be constantly retraining people for one or more of those tasks, or he's going to have to do without some of those skills.
I've been pointing out to him for 18 months that he's got a unique situation: for one thing, his location means there's not nearly as much price sensitivity as most other places. Yes, we sell a lot of doughnuts, but we can also sell little fruit tarts for $4 apiece, or big ones for $15, and have no trouble moving them. In addition, in the past year the other artisan bread bakery in the city has gone to hell--we've picked up several of their accounts, including the new one this past week. And we make spectacular bread--some of the best in the country, or possibly in the world. Basically, he can get as big as he wants to get, but he can't do it alone, and he can't do it with just the Mexican guys, wonderful though they are. (He also can't do it without those guys, at this point.) If he wants to do the bread AND the croissants AND the fancy-ass stuff, he needs people around who can do those things. You know what? I'm willing to be a solution for awhile, but I don't have to solve that problem for him.
So what felt good was being able to do the dance. I was comfortable doing whatever needed to be done, without instruction; when Bossman had to fix the shaper, for example, I just went to the other side of the table and started shaping the sourdough loaves he'd had to leave aside. The dance takes place in high-intensity environments; I'm sure working a line in a restaurant is similar in that regard, even if the pacing is different. (I'd love a post from the Tart about that . . . ) When you're working well with someone, or with several people, you just move around and with each other; you anticipate each other's moves, you step in at just the right moment. At the bakery, Bossman has that rhythm, as does Phil, and I'd say that I do, too; Lole will certainly have it (he already has a lot of it with regard to croissants, but he hasn't worked there long enough to know a lot of other products). (Artie doesn't really have it, though; he's always narrowly focused on what he needs to do. I've managed to retrain him a little, because we have to share several machines.) You know what you need to do, but you're also aware of what else is going on, so you can lend (or get) a hand when need be. It really comes into play on days like yesterday, where you're missing a crucial member of the team, or when (also like yesterday) you simply have a lot of stuff to get done. It's exhilarating, really, and makes an interesting contrast to the kind of flow you can get when you're working alone. But that set of musings will have to wait for another post.
In other news, yesterday featured lots and lots of cowbell, as predicted.
I'd told Bossman I'd show up at 6:30, but managed to get there by 5:50--he was just mixing dough, though, and said he had nothing for me because I was early. Fine, I said, I'll pound my butter, which I did, and then I made the rest of the miniature chocolate/fresh fruit tarts (we sold, let's see, nearly 27 of them, in three days, at about four bucks apiece). As I finished those, the grain dough was ready to be cut up--this many at this weight for epis; this many at this weight for something else; and the rest at 3#12 (i.e., 3 pounds, 12 ounces) for rolls, some of which would be torpedos, some of which would be round, and some of which would be "rustic," i.e., square-ish. Each batch of dough goes through several stages: it's mixed, it rests for awhile (which allows the yeast to grow and, depending on how long it rests, a certain amount of fermentation to occur), it gets folded (dumped on the table and literally stretched and folded in on itself; it's similar to the "punching down" you find in regular cookbooks) one or more times. When it's time for shaping, we cut the batch into the appropriate-sized pieces and each piece is rounded into a ball (gently) and put onto a board to rest again for a little while (maybe 20 minutes?). After that rest, it's shaped in some way--put through a shaping machine, or shaped into its final loaf form; some loaves get coated with something by rolling the loaf on a wet towel and then rolled in the coating (sesame seeds; semolina; cracked wheat). It rises for awhile, then gets slashed and baked.
The square rolls are cut up in the Dutchess. Our Dutchess is a cross between the one at the top and the next one down on the left; it's on wheels, so it can live in the basement and come up via the elevator, and it's about 300 years old (okay, probably 30, but it looks older). We only use the 36-press, and we use it for cookies, rolls, and scones. For those of you who haven't worked in a kitchen or bakery, I should point out that batch sizes for many of our products are based on the capacity of one or more of the machines that will be used on it at some point. We also have a Fortuna divider and rounder that looks exactly like the one on that page; it was delivered to the bakery on the day Bossman's older daughter was born. And, as a matter of fact, the rolls that weren't fated for the Duchess were fated for the Fortuna, which creates round rolls, and some would have a trip through a shaper as well (I can't find a picture; basically, it takes a rounded bit of dough and turns it into a torpedo-shaped bit of dough). At one point, the torpedo-shaper got kind of gunked up, and it eventually required a temporary replacement of a belt.
I don't remember the order in which I did everything, but, in addition to cutting up the grain dough, I cut up sourdough for rolls; helped round up the raisin fennel; shaped some sourdough loaves while Bossman fixed the torpedo-shaper; shaped the raisin fennel; cut up the olive dough; cut up the tomato dough; put the grain rolls through the Duchess; put more grain rolls through the Fortuna and then the torpedo shaper; put the sourdough rolls through the Fortuna and torpedo shaper; and put the olive and tomato rolls through the Fortuna. You'll notice "cut up the croissant dough" isn't on that list--which began to worry me, eventually. Luckily, as noted, Lole had agreed to come in even though it was his day off, and we could not have done it without him. He had his own list of things to do, though, until I finally whined enough around 11:00 or 11:30 such that Bossman let him cut up the croissant dough. He eventually laminated, too (at which he's getting steadily better; the plain croissants yesterday were quite beautiful, and that was all his lamination). Luckily we only had six pieces yesterday (about 90 pounds of dough).
After my break (at about 1:00, I think), I eventually started shaping croissants. I didn't have Lole for that, mostly, which was fine with me. I was trying to get him out of there so he could sign a new lease, but his 3:00 departure ended up being delayed until 4:00, in part because a customer complained about the custard cups Lole had made in the morning and he ended up remaking them. (It's not clear that they were as underbaked as the customer claimed, but it was just easier to remake them.) Somewhere along the line I called the Tart's restaurant, because they had not faxed their breakfast pastry order for the coming week (they're supposed to fax it on Friday, or, when they're being particularly considerate, Thursday; their order lets me know how many of their croissants I need to have in the freezer for the weekend); they STILL hadn't faxed it by the time I left, so Bossman and I took pity on them and put out a couple dozen for delivery this morning. I was tempted to not send anything--nothing like a little object lesson to get your point across--but settled for hoping that they needed way more than we sent.
I finally got out of there around 5:30, went home, showered, and then went off to meet Lole and Lissa and her husband and drink good beer. I stayed out a little too late--I stuck around for an additional beer after those guys left--and I never did get around to eating anything, and I had an attack of sorrow and sadness on the way home, but it was fun to get out. Next time I go out with those guys I want to hear more from Lissa's husband; we kind of monopolized the conversation with bakery talk.
Long though the day was, it was good, too. Although I still feel like Bossman lowballed me, and I'm still looking for something else, it's not in me to not work hard when hard work is what is needed--and, as I'm sure is clear, I like him personally as well as professionally, and I just plain like the work. He hasn't quite figured out that if he wants to have someone around who can do all the things that I can do (and that Lole either can do or will be able to do soon enough), he's gonna have to pay for that. Not necessarily a whole lot, either--$12 or $13 an hour would be in range, and $15 would seal the deal. Certainly he has to pay the bakers more than he pays the people who work the counter (which, in the case of a couple of counter people, isn't the case now). He gets away with not doing so because the Mexican guys aren't unhappy enough--and wouldn't be sufficiently valued elsewhere--to leave; they also may not realize just how good they are. (If Brad comes back full-time, though, all bets are off; I think the Mexican guys would leave.) Essentially, if he wants someone who can laminate like nobody's business, and mix or cut up dough, and make fancy-ass tarts, and even run the bakery when he's not around, he's going to have to pay for that, or he's going to be constantly retraining people for one or more of those tasks, or he's going to have to do without some of those skills.
I've been pointing out to him for 18 months that he's got a unique situation: for one thing, his location means there's not nearly as much price sensitivity as most other places. Yes, we sell a lot of doughnuts, but we can also sell little fruit tarts for $4 apiece, or big ones for $15, and have no trouble moving them. In addition, in the past year the other artisan bread bakery in the city has gone to hell--we've picked up several of their accounts, including the new one this past week. And we make spectacular bread--some of the best in the country, or possibly in the world. Basically, he can get as big as he wants to get, but he can't do it alone, and he can't do it with just the Mexican guys, wonderful though they are. (He also can't do it without those guys, at this point.) If he wants to do the bread AND the croissants AND the fancy-ass stuff, he needs people around who can do those things. You know what? I'm willing to be a solution for awhile, but I don't have to solve that problem for him.
So what felt good was being able to do the dance. I was comfortable doing whatever needed to be done, without instruction; when Bossman had to fix the shaper, for example, I just went to the other side of the table and started shaping the sourdough loaves he'd had to leave aside. The dance takes place in high-intensity environments; I'm sure working a line in a restaurant is similar in that regard, even if the pacing is different. (I'd love a post from the Tart about that . . . ) When you're working well with someone, or with several people, you just move around and with each other; you anticipate each other's moves, you step in at just the right moment. At the bakery, Bossman has that rhythm, as does Phil, and I'd say that I do, too; Lole will certainly have it (he already has a lot of it with regard to croissants, but he hasn't worked there long enough to know a lot of other products). (Artie doesn't really have it, though; he's always narrowly focused on what he needs to do. I've managed to retrain him a little, because we have to share several machines.) You know what you need to do, but you're also aware of what else is going on, so you can lend (or get) a hand when need be. It really comes into play on days like yesterday, where you're missing a crucial member of the team, or when (also like yesterday) you simply have a lot of stuff to get done. It's exhilarating, really, and makes an interesting contrast to the kind of flow you can get when you're working alone. But that set of musings will have to wait for another post.
Friday, July 27, 2007
What's the Diff
Turns out, my mom has clostridium difficile, also known as C diff, which is mostly a problem for people who are old, have weakened immune systems, have chronic renal failure, etc. And, of course, mom manages to hit several jackpots there. I talked to her a little, and she sounds tired and worn-out, which, given that she hasn't actually eaten anything in five days or so is hardly a surprise. After wandering around the intertubes for a bit, I'm a little more worried about this than anyone else is. It could well respond to the drugs they're giving her, and she could avoid a relapse (though the chances are about 50/50, given her assorted conditions), and so on, but I'd say there's some chance that this could be serious, and possibly life-threatening. I've decided not to share that tidbit with my parents, and probably not with Bro (though that could change, depending on what happens in the next day or two), but it's not like I can forget about it.
Grueling day at work, today, too. In answer to kstyle's question following the previous post, yes, this variety would definitely improve my attitude toward the bakery; before Lole showed up, I'd get up every morning and feel like I had to go run a marathon that day. A certain number of croissants had to be produced, and I had to produce them, pretty much single-handedly: a lot of croissant work to do, on a reasonably tight schedule, AND no time to do anything the least bit different or fun. Today there was so much to do--Phil's absence this week, plus a new bread account, plus tomorrow's farmers' markets, put everything into even more overdrive than is usual for a Friday. And, yes, Woody droned on and on and on, and he sticks his commentary into every fucking conversation. For example, I was musing with Lole that brie and strawberries might make an interesting croissant scrap/monkey bun combo, and Woody had to drone on about how brie just melts and you get grease all over everything and this wad of cheese remnants, and HE'D much rather have strawberries and parmesan, he thinks that would rock, blah, blah, blah. I know he means well, but, frankly, I don't trust his palate any more than I trust his dough-making skills.
I made more of the mini chocolate silk tarts today--all six I made yesterday were gone this morning, and most of the ten I made this morning had been sold by the time I left today. At least three of the five hazelnut fruit tarts were gone, too; I'd intended to make more today, but decided to wait until tomorrow. I got stuck making funeral cake today, because Bossman had promised one to a customer. On the other hand, it was nice to be able to be a utility infielder, as that's what was needed today. Even moreso tomorrow, by the sound of it: Bossman said, "I'm making half of everything I know how to make today, and I'm making the other half tomorrow." I'm going to try to get in as early as I can to help out, and we asked Lole to come in, too, even though he's supposed to work only Monday to Friday.
Thus, I need to get some sleep.
Grueling day at work, today, too. In answer to kstyle's question following the previous post, yes, this variety would definitely improve my attitude toward the bakery; before Lole showed up, I'd get up every morning and feel like I had to go run a marathon that day. A certain number of croissants had to be produced, and I had to produce them, pretty much single-handedly: a lot of croissant work to do, on a reasonably tight schedule, AND no time to do anything the least bit different or fun. Today there was so much to do--Phil's absence this week, plus a new bread account, plus tomorrow's farmers' markets, put everything into even more overdrive than is usual for a Friday. And, yes, Woody droned on and on and on, and he sticks his commentary into every fucking conversation. For example, I was musing with Lole that brie and strawberries might make an interesting croissant scrap/monkey bun combo, and Woody had to drone on about how brie just melts and you get grease all over everything and this wad of cheese remnants, and HE'D much rather have strawberries and parmesan, he thinks that would rock, blah, blah, blah. I know he means well, but, frankly, I don't trust his palate any more than I trust his dough-making skills.
I made more of the mini chocolate silk tarts today--all six I made yesterday were gone this morning, and most of the ten I made this morning had been sold by the time I left today. At least three of the five hazelnut fruit tarts were gone, too; I'd intended to make more today, but decided to wait until tomorrow. I got stuck making funeral cake today, because Bossman had promised one to a customer. On the other hand, it was nice to be able to be a utility infielder, as that's what was needed today. Even moreso tomorrow, by the sound of it: Bossman said, "I'm making half of everything I know how to make today, and I'm making the other half tomorrow." I'm going to try to get in as early as I can to help out, and we asked Lole to come in, too, even though he's supposed to work only Monday to Friday.
Thus, I need to get some sleep.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
The Bad, the Good, the Pretty
The bad news is that my mom is in the hospital. Bro called tonight to tell me that she was (as he so elegantly put it) crapping her brains out for two days, and, given her weakened kidneys--they function at about 15% of normal, and she's waiting for a transplant--her doctor thought that hospitalization was the safer move. It's not one of her "attacks," though. (She's been getting these attacks for, oh, ten years or so, where she suddenly feels bloated, then vomits a few times, then has diarrhea for awhile. Her doctors have never been able to diagnose it, but I'm pretty convinced it's a motility disorder. I think her stomach closes off at the bottom, which makes the food in her stomach start to ferment, basically. She's never been able to figure out what triggers the episodes; they show up pretty randomly, and she can go months and months without one.) Anyway, Bro said he'll call me tomorrow with any updates.
Now for the bitching and whining: Woody is getting on my last nerve. He's the one who used to work at the bakery years ago and is back again; he's young--23? 24?--and went to the same culinary school as our intern and Steve. He means well, but lordy he's a pain in the ass. Because Phil's not around this week, Woody is making a lot of the bread, and the intern is working with him--and he just lectures her constantly, droning on and on about how to do this, how to do that. Which would be okay, sort of, if he didn't fuck up stuff as often as he does. (His sourdough rolls today were a travesty, in my opinion.) And he was complaining about Bardo, the dishwasher, which will always piss me off. Yes, it's true, Bardo is not the sharpest tack in the box, but he tries very hard and he works like a dog, and I have found that, if you try to communicate what you want, he will do his best to do it for you.
The good news, though, is that I actually had the opportunity, yesterday AND today, to be a pastry chef, in that I made stuff other than croissants. I've been letting the new guy do the laminating, mostly so he can get comfortable with it and get good, consistent results. He's not all the way there yet, but I don't expect him to be--it'll take some practice, and he's only been doing it for a week or two. We work together in the afternoon to do the shaping, and having two pair of hands makes it go way more quickly. Plus, he's learning all my little systems (you don't make 4,000 croissants a week, nearly single-handedly, without a buttload of little systems).
So one of the things is this chocolate mousse fruit tart--the chocolate mousse came out beautifully, though I would not recommend it to everyone, given that it has raw eggs in it. I'm going to see if I can find a good alternative. The bakery has used that formula for decades, but I really don't think it's a good idea for people with compromised immune systems, say. I filled some pre-baked shells--full-size as well as 3-inch--with the mousse, then covered the tops with fresh fruit. For the large ones, I put blackberry in the center and around the edge, then filled in the rest with raspberries, and for the small ones, I used blueberries around the edge because they fit better; I used strawberries on one, which I think would fit better, flavor-wise, but which is more likely to fall apart or get knocked apart. (Woody felt compelled to opine that he didn't think blueberries were a good choice for the small ones, flavor-wise. Bossman and I ignored him. He was also about to give me shit for arguing against the raw eggs--"You're not going to eat raw eggs?"--and I said it wasn't me, it was that they're not a good idea for people with compromised immune systems. I should have said I don't like raw eggs so much, either, but I really didn't feel like stabbing him, so I chose the other route.)
The other thing uses a sable crust and a hazelnut frangipane (hazelnut flour, sugar, butter, eggs, lemon zest, a little flour). Fresh fruit (cherries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, and strawberries) goes on top of the frangipane and basically sinks into it as it bakes. (Woody's clafouti, on the other hand, ended up with unbaked bottom crust the first time, and floating crust, because he prebaked it, the second time. Don't get me wrong--we all fuck stuff up, even Bossman. It's just that Woody presents himself as such an authority, and with so little reason.) Both these and the chocolate ones got glazed, and these also had a little mound of fresh raspberries and some sucre neige (powdered sugar that won't melt into what it's on) and a couple of chocolate curls.
Yesterday I made some joconde sheets for a batch of opera bars (someone else assembled it, which was fine with me; opera does nothing for me). I was a little worried about it, because when most people (coughcough Woody coughcough) make this formula, they get what one of the chefs at school called a cracker--a too-thin, uneven, crisp thing, rather than a thin sheet of a sponge cake. But Bossman complimented my mix several times, and, in fact, it came out quite nicely.
All in all, it was fun. And I think Bossman was pleased, too, and will let me do more. I'd occasionally ask a question about something--is this how this is supposed to look? what's the method for this?--but I really didn't feel like I was constantly running to him, and the things came out well. It was an interesting sensation, actually, in that I felt like I kinda knew what I was doing, and the questions were only coming out of not having done these things before. I'm sure I'll have bad days where I fuck up every last thing, but I'm just glad today wasn't one of them.
Now for the bitching and whining: Woody is getting on my last nerve. He's the one who used to work at the bakery years ago and is back again; he's young--23? 24?--and went to the same culinary school as our intern and Steve. He means well, but lordy he's a pain in the ass. Because Phil's not around this week, Woody is making a lot of the bread, and the intern is working with him--and he just lectures her constantly, droning on and on about how to do this, how to do that. Which would be okay, sort of, if he didn't fuck up stuff as often as he does. (His sourdough rolls today were a travesty, in my opinion.) And he was complaining about Bardo, the dishwasher, which will always piss me off. Yes, it's true, Bardo is not the sharpest tack in the box, but he tries very hard and he works like a dog, and I have found that, if you try to communicate what you want, he will do his best to do it for you.
The good news, though, is that I actually had the opportunity, yesterday AND today, to be a pastry chef, in that I made stuff other than croissants. I've been letting the new guy do the laminating, mostly so he can get comfortable with it and get good, consistent results. He's not all the way there yet, but I don't expect him to be--it'll take some practice, and he's only been doing it for a week or two. We work together in the afternoon to do the shaping, and having two pair of hands makes it go way more quickly. Plus, he's learning all my little systems (you don't make 4,000 croissants a week, nearly single-handedly, without a buttload of little systems).
So one of the things is this chocolate mousse fruit tart--the chocolate mousse came out beautifully, though I would not recommend it to everyone, given that it has raw eggs in it. I'm going to see if I can find a good alternative. The bakery has used that formula for decades, but I really don't think it's a good idea for people with compromised immune systems, say. I filled some pre-baked shells--full-size as well as 3-inch--with the mousse, then covered the tops with fresh fruit. For the large ones, I put blackberry in the center and around the edge, then filled in the rest with raspberries, and for the small ones, I used blueberries around the edge because they fit better; I used strawberries on one, which I think would fit better, flavor-wise, but which is more likely to fall apart or get knocked apart. (Woody felt compelled to opine that he didn't think blueberries were a good choice for the small ones, flavor-wise. Bossman and I ignored him. He was also about to give me shit for arguing against the raw eggs--"You're not going to eat raw eggs?"--and I said it wasn't me, it was that they're not a good idea for people with compromised immune systems. I should have said I don't like raw eggs so much, either, but I really didn't feel like stabbing him, so I chose the other route.)
The other thing uses a sable crust and a hazelnut frangipane (hazelnut flour, sugar, butter, eggs, lemon zest, a little flour). Fresh fruit (cherries, blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, and strawberries) goes on top of the frangipane and basically sinks into it as it bakes. (Woody's clafouti, on the other hand, ended up with unbaked bottom crust the first time, and floating crust, because he prebaked it, the second time. Don't get me wrong--we all fuck stuff up, even Bossman. It's just that Woody presents himself as such an authority, and with so little reason.) Both these and the chocolate ones got glazed, and these also had a little mound of fresh raspberries and some sucre neige (powdered sugar that won't melt into what it's on) and a couple of chocolate curls.
Yesterday I made some joconde sheets for a batch of opera bars (someone else assembled it, which was fine with me; opera does nothing for me). I was a little worried about it, because when most people (coughcough Woody coughcough) make this formula, they get what one of the chefs at school called a cracker--a too-thin, uneven, crisp thing, rather than a thin sheet of a sponge cake. But Bossman complimented my mix several times, and, in fact, it came out quite nicely.
All in all, it was fun. And I think Bossman was pleased, too, and will let me do more. I'd occasionally ask a question about something--is this how this is supposed to look? what's the method for this?--but I really didn't feel like I was constantly running to him, and the things came out well. It was an interesting sensation, actually, in that I felt like I kinda knew what I was doing, and the questions were only coming out of not having done these things before. I'm sure I'll have bad days where I fuck up every last thing, but I'm just glad today wasn't one of them.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Camp Stories
Phil is going on vacation next week with his family, which means we'll be short two people next week (Phil's 15-year-old son has been working at the bakery this summer, and doing a fine job of it). Lole (pronounced "lo-lay," which is the name Phil has picked for my new helper, apparently because he physically resembles someone who worked in the bakery years ago) and Bossman and I were discussing vacations--what the place Phil is visiting is like (essentially, lots of water parks), where we'd gone as kids, how my family never went to the shore when I was a kid because my dad is fair-skinned and would have gotten a bad sunburn, etc.--and Bossman says, "We didn't go on vacation; I went to Camp Stack-a-Cookie." Which put me on the floor.
Today's discovery is that croissant dough scraps can be mixed with shredded parmesan and asiago cheese, and that it's every bit as tasty as the monkey buns (scraps with cinnamon & sugar). Texturally, it needs some work; it kind of blends together into a buttery cheese-bread thing, which isn't bad, mind you, but could be improved. I'm thinking caramelized onions, chopped broccoli, or even spinach (or mushrooms, for those of you who like fungi). In other food news, I also discovered that little sticks of graham cracker make an excellent dipping implement for Ben and Jerry's Strawberry Cream (light!) ice cream.
And you wonder why I've gained so much weight.
This weekend's plans are pretty mellow. I had thought to do laundry tonight, but lost what little ambition I had (I think I left it on the el). I managed to sort it, so I can do it first thing tomorrow morning, and I've swept the floors. Tomorrow I want to vacuum the bedroom (the one room with a rug), clean the bathroom, water the plants, type up the divorce papers, put away random crap that's sitting around, sort the mail and pay bills, possibly meet Chuck and his son for brunch, watch the Tour, possibly meet my friend later . . . just random life stuff.
I even made a trip to the used-book store this evening, where I purchased a three-volume history (Ferdinand Braudel's Civilization and Capitalism, 15th-18th century) and a couple of novels. The thing about the Braudel is that I used to own it. I dragged it around for years, but never seemed to get around to reading it, so I got rid of it; I don't even remember if I sold it or gave it away. In any case, I stumbled across Dorothy Dunnett a few years ago, and, potboilers though they are in many way, the Lymond and Niccolo series are (a) entertaining and (b) set in exactly the time and space that Braudel narrated. After I worked my way through Dunnett, I thought it would have been useful to have read Braudel . . . but, of course, I'd gotten rid of it along the way. It showed up at the bookstore, for $15 for the three volumes, so I snagged it. And this time I'll probably even read it, or, at least, dip into parts of it.
Monday I want to spend some time trying to get more clients, maybe applying for some jobs; neither of my checks this month had a comma. And the weather is supposed to be beautiful, so getting outside is pretty much required.
I'd thought I was going to have a beer tonight. I had some olive sourdough with sheep's milk cheese, and the aforementioned ice cream, and some club soda and dried fruit, but I'm really not up for a beer, and it's not clear that I'll stay awake even until 10. (Though the LOUD partying in the courtyard will help, I suppose.) What I want most is sleep. And exercise. And sleep. And, most of all, not having to get up at the ass-crack of dawn, even more than sleep. I don't need much sleep--never have--and I really am a morning person, but the ass-crack of dawn gets on my nerves.
Also, watch this space for some guest posting. My friend in California--the one who came through a few months ago--said he wants to start posting here, so I sent him an invite. No idea whether he will, but I'll let him introduce himself if he wants to do it.
Today's discovery is that croissant dough scraps can be mixed with shredded parmesan and asiago cheese, and that it's every bit as tasty as the monkey buns (scraps with cinnamon & sugar). Texturally, it needs some work; it kind of blends together into a buttery cheese-bread thing, which isn't bad, mind you, but could be improved. I'm thinking caramelized onions, chopped broccoli, or even spinach (or mushrooms, for those of you who like fungi). In other food news, I also discovered that little sticks of graham cracker make an excellent dipping implement for Ben and Jerry's Strawberry Cream (light!) ice cream.
And you wonder why I've gained so much weight.
This weekend's plans are pretty mellow. I had thought to do laundry tonight, but lost what little ambition I had (I think I left it on the el). I managed to sort it, so I can do it first thing tomorrow morning, and I've swept the floors. Tomorrow I want to vacuum the bedroom (the one room with a rug), clean the bathroom, water the plants, type up the divorce papers, put away random crap that's sitting around, sort the mail and pay bills, possibly meet Chuck and his son for brunch, watch the Tour, possibly meet my friend later . . . just random life stuff.
I even made a trip to the used-book store this evening, where I purchased a three-volume history (Ferdinand Braudel's Civilization and Capitalism, 15th-18th century) and a couple of novels. The thing about the Braudel is that I used to own it. I dragged it around for years, but never seemed to get around to reading it, so I got rid of it; I don't even remember if I sold it or gave it away. In any case, I stumbled across Dorothy Dunnett a few years ago, and, potboilers though they are in many way, the Lymond and Niccolo series are (a) entertaining and (b) set in exactly the time and space that Braudel narrated. After I worked my way through Dunnett, I thought it would have been useful to have read Braudel . . . but, of course, I'd gotten rid of it along the way. It showed up at the bookstore, for $15 for the three volumes, so I snagged it. And this time I'll probably even read it, or, at least, dip into parts of it.
Monday I want to spend some time trying to get more clients, maybe applying for some jobs; neither of my checks this month had a comma. And the weather is supposed to be beautiful, so getting outside is pretty much required.
I'd thought I was going to have a beer tonight. I had some olive sourdough with sheep's milk cheese, and the aforementioned ice cream, and some club soda and dried fruit, but I'm really not up for a beer, and it's not clear that I'll stay awake even until 10. (Though the LOUD partying in the courtyard will help, I suppose.) What I want most is sleep. And exercise. And sleep. And, most of all, not having to get up at the ass-crack of dawn, even more than sleep. I don't need much sleep--never have--and I really am a morning person, but the ass-crack of dawn gets on my nerves.
Also, watch this space for some guest posting. My friend in California--the one who came through a few months ago--said he wants to start posting here, so I sent him an invite. No idea whether he will, but I'll let him introduce himself if he wants to do it.
Friday, July 20, 2007
What I Said
Hi [HiringPerson]--
Thanks so much for your thorough and thoughtful reply to my questions. You definitely have a great operation going there (and the baking kitchen made me long for sunlight in my workspace!). However, despite my desire for change, I'm not willing to take a pay cut to move. Given the extended training period, and the pay rate after that period, it sounds like you're looking for someone with a different skill set than I have.
Nevertheless, I'm attaching my resume so you can keep it on file. Let me also note that I'm expert in Microsoft Office applications and have extensive project management experience, in case you find you need someone with that skill set.
I did very much enjoy meeting you and seeing the cafe (I'd definitely recommend it to friends in the neighborhood!)--thank you again for your time.
I didn't want to just slam the door--thank you Larry and kStyle--but I really didn't want to get into a stupid negotiation, either. If you want someone to make your cupcakes, scones, and brownies, and do it reliably and reasonably well, okay, no problem; that's probably the right rate for that. If you want someone who's going to bring more to the table, well, I can be that person, but I'm not going to do it for that pay. She noted that they offer "flexibility" in scheduling, but, frankly, I have that now, to some extent. They offer no paid days off, either--hell, I get more than that now, given that the bakery is closed six days/year and I get paid for at least some of them.
My Friend reminds me that I'm getting by with my current situation, and, of course, I am, and the new guy (who's back from Paris as of yesterday) is a huge help, meaning I might even be able to work fewer hours. In short, I can go along like this for awhile, at least while I (a) try to find new clients and/or (b) try to find a job that provides more of what I want. It's still tiring and grueling and blah blah blah, but whatever.
Thanks so much for your thorough and thoughtful reply to my questions. You definitely have a great operation going there (and the baking kitchen made me long for sunlight in my workspace!). However, despite my desire for change, I'm not willing to take a pay cut to move. Given the extended training period, and the pay rate after that period, it sounds like you're looking for someone with a different skill set than I have.
Nevertheless, I'm attaching my resume so you can keep it on file. Let me also note that I'm expert in Microsoft Office applications and have extensive project management experience, in case you find you need someone with that skill set.
I did very much enjoy meeting you and seeing the cafe (I'd definitely recommend it to friends in the neighborhood!)--thank you again for your time.
I didn't want to just slam the door--thank you Larry and kStyle--but I really didn't want to get into a stupid negotiation, either. If you want someone to make your cupcakes, scones, and brownies, and do it reliably and reasonably well, okay, no problem; that's probably the right rate for that. If you want someone who's going to bring more to the table, well, I can be that person, but I'm not going to do it for that pay. She noted that they offer "flexibility" in scheduling, but, frankly, I have that now, to some extent. They offer no paid days off, either--hell, I get more than that now, given that the bakery is closed six days/year and I get paid for at least some of them.
My Friend reminds me that I'm getting by with my current situation, and, of course, I am, and the new guy (who's back from Paris as of yesterday) is a huge help, meaning I might even be able to work fewer hours. In short, I can go along like this for awhile, at least while I (a) try to find new clients and/or (b) try to find a job that provides more of what I want. It's still tiring and grueling and blah blah blah, but whatever.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Or Maybe Not
I got an email from the potential new place Tuesday night. They offer a starting rate of $9.50/hour, with a raise to $10.50/hour after a 45-day "training period." Ummm, I really wasn't looking for a cut in pay, thanks so much, and I find it difficult to believe that I'd need a 6-week training period. I'm tempted to just say a polite version of the above and leave the ball in their court. If that's the offer, after the conversation we had, then I'm gonna have to battle for every fucking 50 cents an hour, and you know? I'm already doing that, and not liking it so much. I can't decide whether to try to negotiate or bail as noted above.
And it depressed me. I mean, what the fuck--I'm 49 years old and arguing about 50 cents an hour: twenty bucks a week. When I look at it like that, it just . . . depresses me.
And yesterday, well, Tuesday afternoon the intern forgot to put the yeast in my dough for yesterday, so it had to be fixed. She was mortified--she was more upset than I was. I wasn't exactly thrilled, of course, because it wreaked havoc with my day and my week, but I learned how to fix a different mistake, and she was so concerned and apologetic I didn't have it in me to be actually annoyed.
I'm seeing the finish line of another proofreading project, too--sending the next-to-last bits (all except the glossary, which I haven't received) this morning. Which means I have NOTHING scheduled for Monday, and I'm trying to keep it that way--and which means I can (a) write up the divorce papers and (b) start trolling for more publishers for whom I can do freelance proofreading/copyediting. Of course, the lack of additional work also sends me into a slight panic, but you can't have it both ways.
And it depressed me. I mean, what the fuck--I'm 49 years old and arguing about 50 cents an hour: twenty bucks a week. When I look at it like that, it just . . . depresses me.
And yesterday, well, Tuesday afternoon the intern forgot to put the yeast in my dough for yesterday, so it had to be fixed. She was mortified--she was more upset than I was. I wasn't exactly thrilled, of course, because it wreaked havoc with my day and my week, but I learned how to fix a different mistake, and she was so concerned and apologetic I didn't have it in me to be actually annoyed.
I'm seeing the finish line of another proofreading project, too--sending the next-to-last bits (all except the glossary, which I haven't received) this morning. Which means I have NOTHING scheduled for Monday, and I'm trying to keep it that way--and which means I can (a) write up the divorce papers and (b) start trolling for more publishers for whom I can do freelance proofreading/copyediting. Of course, the lack of additional work also sends me into a slight panic, but you can't have it both ways.
Monday, July 16, 2007
First Light (sort of)*
What a great birthday weekend!
Friday was nothing much, though it was my actual birthday--I was up late Thursday night doing an event for the bakery (gotta love those 15-hour days . . .), so I basically went to bed at 9:30 on Friday. (I should mention that a Cute Boy brought me cherries and blueberries he'd picked--he is, in fact, cute, and in his early 20s, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think he has a little crush on me, old broad though I am.) Into every life a little rain must fall, and mine (this week, anyway) has taken the form of a clogged toilet (again!!) and a post-birthday nastygram from Chuck. Apparently this is a new tradition on his part, and I could live without it. The main points were: (1) I have no right to ask him about the woman he's been seeing since last August (truly, I'm just making conversation, and, since he has (a) called to ask how to cook this or that for her, (b) told me about her and her doings without prompting, and (c) told me about his sex life with her, again without prompting, it didn't occur to me that I couldn't ask questions); (2) he doesn't know how much longer he can continue to let me see his son, because it upsets Chuck too much; he dreamed that I called him and wanted to get back together with him, so I am now responsible for his dreams; and (3) a previous lover--from years ago--was not, in fact, the love of his life; apparently I hold that position, and he still loves me and is hurt and angry and confused about what happened a year ago. Apparently lying to me, taking my money, moving out, and telling me he was falling for someone else, all while not doing any of the things I asked him to do, were not sufficient reasons for me to not want to be married to him any longer. I got this email just before I left work Saturday, so I decided to dismiss it from my mind (as much as possible), and I managed to do that reasonably well. I'm trying to decide whether to answer it, and determine whether I can answer it with the compassion I've set for myself. The jury is still out.
Saturday after work my friend met me at the grocery store with his vehicle, so I bought all kinds of heavy and bulky things; it was very exciting to buy soap AND the huge pack of toilet paper AND bleach AND milk AND cereal AND so on. We went back to my place and unloaded groceries, then I showered and he took me to dinner (about which more in a minute). We'd planned to drink champagne after dinner, but we were both wiped out, so we just went to sleep. Sunday morning we watched the Tour de France coverage then went to crunchy-granola restaurant to hang with our peeps and get some breakfast. I grabbed my crap and we headed to his place, where I got the first pass of the proofreading done and he watered his garden and got in a bike ride. We went to find food, and succeeded. Back at his place, we opened the champagne AND he got out his telescope, because he's promised to do that for me (I've never looked through a telescope) and he was hoping to see a comet. I saw Arcturus and Jupiter (and three of the moons), and it was a lovely night.
Today, I met with my dissertating client, then talked to a cafe/restaurant person about a new job doing their baking. It's a smallish casual restaurant, a very small gourmet grocery store, and a counter with baked goods, candy, etc.--and their bakers have all left and they're looking for someone new. I have to think about it some more, but it sounds like the right move: they've been in business for four years, and the business is growing; they make good products with good ingredients; they're open to me instituting systems and doing some new products; and I'd work (probably) a maximum of 40 hours/week, which would give me time to expand the copyediting/proofreading business. I think I'm going to do it. I'll sleep on it tonight, but I think it's the way to go. I'm going to have to get going in terms of trying to find additional publishers with whom to work, so there will be some lag time there that might freak me out a little bit, but I think I can do it. I also had a wonderful zen shiatsu massage today.
I can't think of a good reason not to do it. The current situation has its good parts, of course--most notably the people, and the satisfaction that comes from making the best croissants in the city--but I'm tired of the crazy, and I'm tired of being underappreciated, and I'm tired of doing only one thing, and I'm really really tired of the long hours and low pay. Another buck or two an hour would be nice, even if reduced hours basically means I'd make less at that job. Still, an extra two or three hours a day for editing--or just living, or practicing yoga, or whatever--would be nice.
As for dinner Saturday, we started by sharing calamari in a spicy balsamic vinegar sauce, with spinach and something else, that was really quite spectacular. He had the special manicotti of the day (several kinds of cheese, roasted chicken, something else?) and I had duck tortellone with spinach, sun-dried tomatos, cheese, fresh tomatos, and a wine/cognac sauce. We shared a great bottle of wine, then with dessert (dessert canneloni with orange mascarpone cheese and fresh fruit) he had a glass of port and I had a glass of dessert wine. We both ended up with lots of leftovers; the place is famous for that. I just had mine a little while ago, as I made my tea for the week.
So I have to sleep on the new job possibility, and find out what they're willing to pay me, and so on, but it could happen.
---------
*"First light" typically refers to the first time a telescope is used, rather than the first time a person uses a telescope, but whatever.
Friday was nothing much, though it was my actual birthday--I was up late Thursday night doing an event for the bakery (gotta love those 15-hour days . . .), so I basically went to bed at 9:30 on Friday. (I should mention that a Cute Boy brought me cherries and blueberries he'd picked--he is, in fact, cute, and in his early 20s, and if I didn't know any better, I'd think he has a little crush on me, old broad though I am.) Into every life a little rain must fall, and mine (this week, anyway) has taken the form of a clogged toilet (again!!) and a post-birthday nastygram from Chuck. Apparently this is a new tradition on his part, and I could live without it. The main points were: (1) I have no right to ask him about the woman he's been seeing since last August (truly, I'm just making conversation, and, since he has (a) called to ask how to cook this or that for her, (b) told me about her and her doings without prompting, and (c) told me about his sex life with her, again without prompting, it didn't occur to me that I couldn't ask questions); (2) he doesn't know how much longer he can continue to let me see his son, because it upsets Chuck too much; he dreamed that I called him and wanted to get back together with him, so I am now responsible for his dreams; and (3) a previous lover--from years ago--was not, in fact, the love of his life; apparently I hold that position, and he still loves me and is hurt and angry and confused about what happened a year ago. Apparently lying to me, taking my money, moving out, and telling me he was falling for someone else, all while not doing any of the things I asked him to do, were not sufficient reasons for me to not want to be married to him any longer. I got this email just before I left work Saturday, so I decided to dismiss it from my mind (as much as possible), and I managed to do that reasonably well. I'm trying to decide whether to answer it, and determine whether I can answer it with the compassion I've set for myself. The jury is still out.
Saturday after work my friend met me at the grocery store with his vehicle, so I bought all kinds of heavy and bulky things; it was very exciting to buy soap AND the huge pack of toilet paper AND bleach AND milk AND cereal AND so on. We went back to my place and unloaded groceries, then I showered and he took me to dinner (about which more in a minute). We'd planned to drink champagne after dinner, but we were both wiped out, so we just went to sleep. Sunday morning we watched the Tour de France coverage then went to crunchy-granola restaurant to hang with our peeps and get some breakfast. I grabbed my crap and we headed to his place, where I got the first pass of the proofreading done and he watered his garden and got in a bike ride. We went to find food, and succeeded. Back at his place, we opened the champagne AND he got out his telescope, because he's promised to do that for me (I've never looked through a telescope) and he was hoping to see a comet. I saw Arcturus and Jupiter (and three of the moons), and it was a lovely night.
Today, I met with my dissertating client, then talked to a cafe/restaurant person about a new job doing their baking. It's a smallish casual restaurant, a very small gourmet grocery store, and a counter with baked goods, candy, etc.--and their bakers have all left and they're looking for someone new. I have to think about it some more, but it sounds like the right move: they've been in business for four years, and the business is growing; they make good products with good ingredients; they're open to me instituting systems and doing some new products; and I'd work (probably) a maximum of 40 hours/week, which would give me time to expand the copyediting/proofreading business. I think I'm going to do it. I'll sleep on it tonight, but I think it's the way to go. I'm going to have to get going in terms of trying to find additional publishers with whom to work, so there will be some lag time there that might freak me out a little bit, but I think I can do it. I also had a wonderful zen shiatsu massage today.
I can't think of a good reason not to do it. The current situation has its good parts, of course--most notably the people, and the satisfaction that comes from making the best croissants in the city--but I'm tired of the crazy, and I'm tired of being underappreciated, and I'm tired of doing only one thing, and I'm really really tired of the long hours and low pay. Another buck or two an hour would be nice, even if reduced hours basically means I'd make less at that job. Still, an extra two or three hours a day for editing--or just living, or practicing yoga, or whatever--would be nice.
As for dinner Saturday, we started by sharing calamari in a spicy balsamic vinegar sauce, with spinach and something else, that was really quite spectacular. He had the special manicotti of the day (several kinds of cheese, roasted chicken, something else?) and I had duck tortellone with spinach, sun-dried tomatos, cheese, fresh tomatos, and a wine/cognac sauce. We shared a great bottle of wine, then with dessert (dessert canneloni with orange mascarpone cheese and fresh fruit) he had a glass of port and I had a glass of dessert wine. We both ended up with lots of leftovers; the place is famous for that. I just had mine a little while ago, as I made my tea for the week.
So I have to sleep on the new job possibility, and find out what they're willing to pay me, and so on, but it could happen.
---------
*"First light" typically refers to the first time a telescope is used, rather than the first time a person uses a telescope, but whatever.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
What I Read for Lunch Today
I keep forgetting to include my book reviews . . .
About two months ago I reread Marilyn French's The Women's Room. I remember reading this in college and regarding it as not so much a revelation as a confirmation that I wasn't, in fact, crazy. Even all these years later, I found that it's still pretty damned powerful and that it details, in wrenching specificity, the small ways and the larger ways that patriarchy overwhelms us, permeates our lives, and oppresses us. i won't go on about it here, unless more of you have read it and have something to say. (And if you haven't read it, i strongly recommend that you do.)
Right now, though, I'm reading The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley, and I'm wondering how I missed reading this one. I think I never realized it was about the Arthur myths (from the perspective of the women and Druids and godess-worshipppers in said stories) and thought it was just witches and fairies and magick, for which I usually have little patience (Ursula LeGuin's Earthsea books being a notable exception). And, may I say, I'm REALLY loving this book, not least because it attempts to tell a story about how christianity roots out people who believe otherwise. Bradley noted, in an introduction added later, that she hadn't intended to disrespect christianity, per se, but, boy howdy, there ain't a lot of tolerance going around among the christians. It's particularly powerful in telling a story about how christianity taught men and women that women are sinful, that bodies are sinful, etc.
Yeah, work at the bakery is grueling, still, though the break in the heat helps. Tomorrow will be a 15-hour day, or so, because after a full day's work, I'm working the foodie event in the evening. The upside is that I'll get to eat, for free, from the offerings of some of the best restaurants in the city. But still a long day.
Also also wik, I'm enjoying the Tour de France; any of you following it at all?
About two months ago I reread Marilyn French's The Women's Room. I remember reading this in college and regarding it as not so much a revelation as a confirmation that I wasn't, in fact, crazy. Even all these years later, I found that it's still pretty damned powerful and that it details, in wrenching specificity, the small ways and the larger ways that patriarchy overwhelms us, permeates our lives, and oppresses us. i won't go on about it here, unless more of you have read it and have something to say. (And if you haven't read it, i strongly recommend that you do.)
Right now, though, I'm reading The Mists of Avalon, by Marion Zimmer Bradley, and I'm wondering how I missed reading this one. I think I never realized it was about the Arthur myths (from the perspective of the women and Druids and godess-worshipppers in said stories) and thought it was just witches and fairies and magick, for which I usually have little patience (Ursula LeGuin's Earthsea books being a notable exception). And, may I say, I'm REALLY loving this book, not least because it attempts to tell a story about how christianity roots out people who believe otherwise. Bradley noted, in an introduction added later, that she hadn't intended to disrespect christianity, per se, but, boy howdy, there ain't a lot of tolerance going around among the christians. It's particularly powerful in telling a story about how christianity taught men and women that women are sinful, that bodies are sinful, etc.
Yeah, work at the bakery is grueling, still, though the break in the heat helps. Tomorrow will be a 15-hour day, or so, because after a full day's work, I'm working the foodie event in the evening. The upside is that I'll get to eat, for free, from the offerings of some of the best restaurants in the city. But still a long day.
Also also wik, I'm enjoying the Tour de France; any of you following it at all?
Monday, July 9, 2007
More Lunch
Social, social Narya!
First, breakfast with the Brazen one (don't bother clicking--she's busy with skydiving and having fun, as well as working grueling hours at the Schmancy Restaurant, so writing blogposts isn't on her top-ten list) and another pastry school friend, then immediately went to meet the Orange one for tea (we had to change venues, as the original choice was closed, either for the day or permanently). After all the fun and socializing, I came home to slog through the rest of the proofreading, and, indeed, I finished it, which made me happy. I had negotiated a due date of next week at the latest, in anticipation of this week's craziness, but managed to get it done this week instead, which is what I'd hoped--freeing me up for the weekend. I've also taken on a dissertating client; I'm trying to help her get a proposal written and passed by her committee, which I think we can manage. My next Major Task is writing up the divorce papers: I saw Chuck and his son on Friday, and everyone behaved and had a good time. The rest of the weekend was spent working (Saturday), vegetating, breakfasting with Friend, watching races with said Friend, coaxing Friend into a walk in the woods, then making a light dinner with him (chopped tomatos, fresh mozzarella, and basil, with semolina sesame sourdough bread), then more race-watching, plus champagne (because why not; the Walgreen's near him has been clearing out its alcohol section, so the good stuff was 30% off).
Yes, it's still hot, and I expect the bakery will be extremely hot tomorrow--those oven thingies tend to heat things up some--but whatever. I'll play the lottery, too.
First, breakfast with the Brazen one (don't bother clicking--she's busy with skydiving and having fun, as well as working grueling hours at the Schmancy Restaurant, so writing blogposts isn't on her top-ten list) and another pastry school friend, then immediately went to meet the Orange one for tea (we had to change venues, as the original choice was closed, either for the day or permanently). After all the fun and socializing, I came home to slog through the rest of the proofreading, and, indeed, I finished it, which made me happy. I had negotiated a due date of next week at the latest, in anticipation of this week's craziness, but managed to get it done this week instead, which is what I'd hoped--freeing me up for the weekend. I've also taken on a dissertating client; I'm trying to help her get a proposal written and passed by her committee, which I think we can manage. My next Major Task is writing up the divorce papers: I saw Chuck and his son on Friday, and everyone behaved and had a good time. The rest of the weekend was spent working (Saturday), vegetating, breakfasting with Friend, watching races with said Friend, coaxing Friend into a walk in the woods, then making a light dinner with him (chopped tomatos, fresh mozzarella, and basil, with semolina sesame sourdough bread), then more race-watching, plus champagne (because why not; the Walgreen's near him has been clearing out its alcohol section, so the good stuff was 30% off).
Yes, it's still hot, and I expect the bakery will be extremely hot tomorrow--those oven thingies tend to heat things up some--but whatever. I'll play the lottery, too.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Fear of Falling
In the past two days, Marty (the new guy from my pastry school, who's heading to France tomorrow for 10 days but will be working with me full-time after that) and I made up 500 pounds of laminated dough into croissants. Yes, you read that correctly: a quarter-ton of croissants, in two days. Thanks to that effort (and Marty's already proving his worth), this coming week won't be as bad as it might otherwise have been. (Bossman is taking a class Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, and he leaves Thursday for Texas, which means, in part, that Thursday will be a 14-hour day, because I'm going to be the bakery's resident expert at a foodie event in the evening.)
But that's not what I want to write about.
Over at Flea's place, she recently wrote one of the funniest posts I've ever seen. She then followed it up with two related posts that sum up many things, including my fears, and that brought tears to my eyes.
As I have spewed my fears all over this space, my readers have reassured me multiple times, and I appreciate every word of it. I've had to keep reminding myself that I'm not in dire straits. But in the back of my head, I hear a panicked whisper that says, "Not yet. But it could happen." Where the panic comes from is that I realize that I'm one stroke of bad luck away from disaster, precisely because I don't have much money. Yes, I'm getting by, and even making enough to afford some fun, but it's all held together with spit and baling wire. As Flea's experience shows, sometimes nothing can protect you. Except money. And if you don't have that, you're fucked, plain and simple, and not in a good way.
There are two things (at least) I want to make clear. The first is that there's a tendency in all of us when we read accounts like these (or accounts like the ones David Shipley provides in The Working Poor) that tempt us to search for some big mistake that someone made that We Would Never Make. And it's bullshit, it's a kind of incantation we chant to reassure ourselves that we can't, won't, no never would find ourselves in That Position. Even a fragment of honesty, however, makes it clear that the incantation--and the blaming it implies--aren't the right answer to the fear of finding ourselves in a desperate situation. Compassion strikes me as a better response, as well as concrete assistance--how about real health care for everyone, just for starters?--and a better safety net and a living wage. When's the last time a politician tried to feed his or her family on a minimum-wage job? Or even on the nearly-twice-minimum-wage money I'm making? I can't imagine trying to feed another person, much less a couple of kids, on what I make.
And that leads to my second point. Bad things happen to everyone. No amount of health insurance is going to keep you from getting fibroids, or cancer, or a broken bone, or double pneumonia. (Actually, some kinds of health insurance make possible health care that helps catch some maladies early when they can be cured easily.) I figured out, when my sister died, that everyone's life has bad shit in it. It's why I had little patience with Chuck's ex-wife's moaning about how difficult her life is--and, more to the point, why I had little patience with his son's mimicking her complaints. Even more to the point, everyone makes mistakes, including some big ones and some expensive ones. (My sister-in-law not paying the mortgage for a year and a half, without telling my brother, would be an example of that one, in that my brother came within days of losing his house.)
But, and this is a big goddamned but, money means you have a cushion, a protective layer, that lessens the effects of the bad shit and big mistakes. Imagine that Chuck had really gone round the bend and run up, oh, $30,000 in credit card debt on a card he got while we were married. At the very least, I'd have to hire a lawyer to avoid being socked with part of that debt. Yes, you can tell me I shouldn't have married him, that that was a Big Mistake--but that wouldn't pay my debt or hire my lawyer, would it? That wouldn't protect me from collection agencies and a fucked credit rating and possibly garnished wages or some such.
And so I live with the fear. It's always been there--it eased up for a couple of years when I was debt-free and making (relative to my usual wages) more money, and able to save some. But that's all gone now, and I'm working in a low-paying job, in a low-paying industry, at work that is physically grueling and that can't be maintained over the long term. Frankly, I think fear is the appropriate response. And trying to find a way into a better situation, which I'm doing my best to create, but the fear stays with me.
But that's not what I want to write about.
Over at Flea's place, she recently wrote one of the funniest posts I've ever seen. She then followed it up with two related posts that sum up many things, including my fears, and that brought tears to my eyes.
As I have spewed my fears all over this space, my readers have reassured me multiple times, and I appreciate every word of it. I've had to keep reminding myself that I'm not in dire straits. But in the back of my head, I hear a panicked whisper that says, "Not yet. But it could happen." Where the panic comes from is that I realize that I'm one stroke of bad luck away from disaster, precisely because I don't have much money. Yes, I'm getting by, and even making enough to afford some fun, but it's all held together with spit and baling wire. As Flea's experience shows, sometimes nothing can protect you. Except money. And if you don't have that, you're fucked, plain and simple, and not in a good way.
There are two things (at least) I want to make clear. The first is that there's a tendency in all of us when we read accounts like these (or accounts like the ones David Shipley provides in The Working Poor) that tempt us to search for some big mistake that someone made that We Would Never Make. And it's bullshit, it's a kind of incantation we chant to reassure ourselves that we can't, won't, no never would find ourselves in That Position. Even a fragment of honesty, however, makes it clear that the incantation--and the blaming it implies--aren't the right answer to the fear of finding ourselves in a desperate situation. Compassion strikes me as a better response, as well as concrete assistance--how about real health care for everyone, just for starters?--and a better safety net and a living wage. When's the last time a politician tried to feed his or her family on a minimum-wage job? Or even on the nearly-twice-minimum-wage money I'm making? I can't imagine trying to feed another person, much less a couple of kids, on what I make.
And that leads to my second point. Bad things happen to everyone. No amount of health insurance is going to keep you from getting fibroids, or cancer, or a broken bone, or double pneumonia. (Actually, some kinds of health insurance make possible health care that helps catch some maladies early when they can be cured easily.) I figured out, when my sister died, that everyone's life has bad shit in it. It's why I had little patience with Chuck's ex-wife's moaning about how difficult her life is--and, more to the point, why I had little patience with his son's mimicking her complaints. Even more to the point, everyone makes mistakes, including some big ones and some expensive ones. (My sister-in-law not paying the mortgage for a year and a half, without telling my brother, would be an example of that one, in that my brother came within days of losing his house.)
But, and this is a big goddamned but, money means you have a cushion, a protective layer, that lessens the effects of the bad shit and big mistakes. Imagine that Chuck had really gone round the bend and run up, oh, $30,000 in credit card debt on a card he got while we were married. At the very least, I'd have to hire a lawyer to avoid being socked with part of that debt. Yes, you can tell me I shouldn't have married him, that that was a Big Mistake--but that wouldn't pay my debt or hire my lawyer, would it? That wouldn't protect me from collection agencies and a fucked credit rating and possibly garnished wages or some such.
And so I live with the fear. It's always been there--it eased up for a couple of years when I was debt-free and making (relative to my usual wages) more money, and able to save some. But that's all gone now, and I'm working in a low-paying job, in a low-paying industry, at work that is physically grueling and that can't be maintained over the long term. Frankly, I think fear is the appropriate response. And trying to find a way into a better situation, which I'm doing my best to create, but the fear stays with me.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Oooooo . . . . . Ahhhhhhh
A little mini-vacation in the middle of the week! And I made the most of it. Tuesday night I met my friend at our usual Tuesday-night good-beer-and-free-food venue. We both got out of work early and therefore were both there early (4:00 for me, rather than 6:00, for example, and 4:20 rather than 5:00 for him), which meant more time for chatting. After dinner, we dashed out of there, hopped in his vehicle, drove to an el station and parked said vehicle, and took public transportation to the big fireworks. (I LOVE fireworks.) The past bunch of years i've watched them from a boat in the middle of the harbor; our seats on Tuesday weren't quite that good, but not by much. After the fireworks, we headed back to the public transportation, waited through a bottleneck into the station, and then got on a nearly empty train: most of the people getting on there were heading south, while we were heading north. We got off the train near the vehicle but we did not go directly to the vehicle; instead, we went to hear a band at a bar near the vehicle's location. Sleep did not occur until nearly 2 am.
Needless to say, Wednesday was somewhat slower--I did manage to do some first-pass proofreading, and we managed to grill our food for dinner, so I felt both productive and patriotic (insofar as I care at all about the latter). We had some ice cream after dinner, on our way to the lakefront near my apartment, where we could watch still more fireworks. And although I got up early this morning, I didn't get to the bakery until 10 am (I had dough in the freezer, which meant I had nothing to laminate and there was no point in going in early, plus I got to get more proofreading done). It'll be a light paycheck, given that I won't put in 40 hours this week, but I don't care. Next week will likely be somewhat hellish, given Bossman's absence for much of it PLUS me filling in for him on Thursday night at some fancy-ass foodie thing (15-hour day, that'll be), but getting the proofreading moving along means it'll be less hellish than I once feared. The editor had wanted the stuff back next week, but, given the known qualities of next week, I pushed the deadlines back to the week after that, thinking that I was better off promising late and delivering early rather than the other way around. The manuscript is unbelievably poorly written, and the copyeditor apparently saw no reason to fix a lot of the messy bits, which I don't really understand. Seriously: I could take this manuscript and write a book that is twice as good as the one they're going to get. I'm restraining myself, because I'm proofreading rather than copyediting, meaning the text is already in page proofs, but it's pretty heinous, and the things the copyeditor outright missed are a little disturbing (the past tense of "lead" is "led," not "lead," for example); I can only hope my own copyediting isn't that bad.
Okay, I'm fading fast, and this isn't anything other than a what-I-had-for-lunch post, but it's all I got. Except to say that the son of a bitch should have served a jail term.
Needless to say, Wednesday was somewhat slower--I did manage to do some first-pass proofreading, and we managed to grill our food for dinner, so I felt both productive and patriotic (insofar as I care at all about the latter). We had some ice cream after dinner, on our way to the lakefront near my apartment, where we could watch still more fireworks. And although I got up early this morning, I didn't get to the bakery until 10 am (I had dough in the freezer, which meant I had nothing to laminate and there was no point in going in early, plus I got to get more proofreading done). It'll be a light paycheck, given that I won't put in 40 hours this week, but I don't care. Next week will likely be somewhat hellish, given Bossman's absence for much of it PLUS me filling in for him on Thursday night at some fancy-ass foodie thing (15-hour day, that'll be), but getting the proofreading moving along means it'll be less hellish than I once feared. The editor had wanted the stuff back next week, but, given the known qualities of next week, I pushed the deadlines back to the week after that, thinking that I was better off promising late and delivering early rather than the other way around. The manuscript is unbelievably poorly written, and the copyeditor apparently saw no reason to fix a lot of the messy bits, which I don't really understand. Seriously: I could take this manuscript and write a book that is twice as good as the one they're going to get. I'm restraining myself, because I'm proofreading rather than copyediting, meaning the text is already in page proofs, but it's pretty heinous, and the things the copyeditor outright missed are a little disturbing (the past tense of "lead" is "led," not "lead," for example); I can only hope my own copyediting isn't that bad.
Okay, I'm fading fast, and this isn't anything other than a what-I-had-for-lunch post, but it's all I got. Except to say that the son of a bitch should have served a jail term.
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