I admire people that are creative, those that can express through the arts, through written word and music, a passion for something have always been something that I wish I could emulate. Alas, I am no artist. I couldn't paint worth a crap, the last time I was asked to "sculpt" I made a rock out of lard, wasn't even a good looking rock, and while I played in a band while in high school I am no musician. I was taught my part by others and I replicated the music for performance.
I think the only place I feel any whisper of artistic leanings is in writing. And laid bare for all to see is the fruit of that writing. So, you can see I'm not really artistic at all. That's ok, I'm not going to drive in Monaco for Ferrari either. Whatever. I have somewhere the first few pages of the great Canadian novel which I think is not bad, but don't hold your breath for the movie rights anytime soon.
I wonder if I'm missing the inspiration thing, that intangible drive that forces you to express yourself somehow, the heart of a poet thing that speaks to you and doesn't leave you alone until you find a way to bring forth that which is most moving to you. The sentiment that "I want to say something" is kind of strong in me and I think maybe this blog is how it's finally manifesting itself. Don't know....
Some of you may say that cooking is artistic, and you'd be right, but I have never viewed it as such. I can do pretty plates but I'm more interested in the taste, the texture and the feel of food as opposed to how snap chat worthy it is. And I am not a pastry chef...too exact for my liking. I want freedom to fuck around with a dish, and baking is a science, so not my forte. But you would love my white chocolate crème brûlée...just saying.
Funny thing about my cooking career, it was not even really on my radar growing up. I get asked that all the time, what made you go into cooking? Was it your mothers food that inspired you? Uhm, no. I didn't have an appreciation for anything like that until after going into the business. I, my friends, backed into this career...literally. I did work at a restaurant in high school but that was just a job for me, a means to pay for beer and gas, and while in Europe, cuckoo clocks. When I was younger I wanted to be an architect and somehow along the line I wanted to go into film. I wanted to be the next Spielberg. That having something to say desire was in it's early stages back then....and I felt I wanted to say it through film.
The problem, as I saw it back then, was that the fine arts program at York University was pretty exclusive. 40 people accepted out of 400 applicants....so you needed to be good already at something and you probably needed better grades than I had. Remember my post on high school....enough said. This rejection left me with a decision to make and I chose to take a year off, take night school to bring my marks up and re-apply for the following year....well, since I haven't won an oscar you know what happened. Rejected again.
I was pretty dejected at this point, I had no idea what I wanted to do. I had my application in to go to college for the technical side of the business, figuring it was a way in (as an aside, the what ifs get asked here, what if I had gone into that field?). But what happened was something different entirely. I was at work and I was feeling pretty down actually. I must have been bitching about things and one of the other cooks I was working with asked me what else I might have liked to do. Well genius, if I knew that I would be doing it...but I answered with an almost funny half serious answer. I think owning a bar would be cool, thinking of the free booze and playing Sam Malone to someone else's Norm. And fate steps in and he says...you should take some culinary in college so you can always know what's going on in your kitchen, it will help you control costs and so on. That actually sounded like a good plan to me....changed my application to culinary management and as they say, the rest is history.
I took to the course like a fish to water. It was unreal to me that I could do such things with food. I was learning by leaps and bounds and I quickly became one of the leaders in the class because I seemed to know what I was doing. I didn't think so but act as if ye have faith and faith shall be given...right? I learned a lot that first year and the second year was where I really found my place in the kitchen. To put it as humbly as I can...I rocked. Haha I did very well and finished with honours at the top of the class. I was home.
Which is funny when I recall walking through the halls of York for an interview with the selection committee. I'm old school rock and roll rebel guy walking amongst the all black turtle neck wearing Doc Martin crowd...I did not fit in. Maybe I would have been better off suited to running the equipment in some way, but my calling was found at the suggestion of a half way house reject...he was crystal meth chic before crystal meth was a thing, but if not for him, who knows where I would be today?
Maybe the writing thing will pick up one day. Or maybe I will do stand up comedy, stand there and let people laugh at me.
Ciao
D
Sunday, 31 July 2016
Saturday, 30 July 2016
What could possibly go wrong?
Have you ever found yourself looking back on an incident in your life and wonder, how the hell am I still alive? I'm a tad surprised that I made it to my 40's. I have done some boneheaded things in my life that my mother is only now starting to find out about...I feel 2000 kilometres is a safe distance. Mom, if you're reading this, I didn't tell you because I wanted to spare you any more grief than necessary, and the wooden spoons of course.
I've spoke of living without fear recently and I meant it within the context of being in my late 40's and of matters not so much physical as emotional and mental. In my teens, it was physical...I was pretty fearless, as most of us were because we were, if you recall, indestructible. It rarely crossed my mind that the next step I take might be my last, sure we can make that jump on our little BMX bikes. Yikes. Now I get the heebee jeebies when I watch my kids get within 50 feet of the dark stones at Peggy's Cove...fatherhood changes you.
One of my earlier jobs was working at an apartment complex that my friend Danny lived at. He hooked me up as a jack of all trades summer job. One day we're watering lawns the next we're scrubbing carpet runners and mopping the god damn stairs. Our boss was this short funny little guy named Manuel. He was from somewhere in Central America and funny as hell. Not an ounce of what we call PC now but he seemed like a good guy anyway. One day Manuel decides that the filters on the ventilation system needs changing. On the roof of each building stood HVAC units that seemingly had filters to be replaced. OK boss, we're on it. So up we go to the roof of one of the buildings on a beautiful and windless day, that's important by the way, the lack of gale force winds up 23 stories. Now, when you get to the roof there is a long way to get to the HVAC unit and the stupid way, any guesses on which one I took? Yep, not the longer way. The foot print of the building was such that it created a few "L" shaped corners all the way up the building, in one such spot was the opportunity to step to the other side of the roof and get to the units quicker. Problem was that you had to step across a gap that provided for a 23 story drop to the ground. In my defence, it was a small gap, a step really, so if you can take a normal sized step you were gold. Just don't look down...and check the wind before lifting your foot. So step across the chasm I did and finished my journey to the HVAC unit. I waited for Danny as we took the long way...the look on his face when he realised what I had done was awesome. In truth that's what I was looking for...his reaction. I might have mentioned that my humour is for me, I don't really care if anyone else finds it funny I'm amusing myself...this step stunt was for my amusement as well. I'm not much of a follower and really only a leader at work...I prefer to make my own path, if someone is there in front of me, fine, let him be in charge. And if someone is behind me...I didn't tell him or her to do that. He spent the rest of the day berating me for taking a risk like that and I wondered what would happen if I tied him up in a closet for the afternoon. Fuck...chill man.
This story my mom now knows about, I told her the truth just this year....30 years later. Once again we are back at the apartment complex and Danny and I worked a few nights a week doing light janitorial duties. Mostly we were face first in our arms sleeping at the lunch table while listening to Judas Priest on his huge 80's boom box. On one such shift we had actually taken off to go buy records downtown. I know...wtf right. Whatever, that's minor to some of the crap I pulled over the years. Case in point...
We would often have friends come visit us while we were working, or not, such as it was. On one such occasion one of our friends, named Dino if I remember correctly came up with his mom's old school station wagon, wood panelling and all. The styrofoam Big Mac containers were probably still falling out of it back then. Now, I don't know why we decided to do what we did but it must have seemed like a good idea at the time. We got on the back steel bumper, yes they were steel back then, held on to the roof rack and Dino was to drive us around the parking area. Before I go on I should mention that A. I was holding a can of freezing spray, a paint size can of spray that would enable you to scrape gum off of surfaces and B. Dino is a maniac. He hit 50 km/h up on that traffic circle, turns and all. So there I am holding on for dear life with only one hand fully engaged because of the damn can. I knew I was soon to fall off, I was sure as shit going to get flung from that car. So I decided to do a controlled crash landing type of thing. Think about that for a minute.....Yep, I jumped off. Insert shocked emoji. I reasoned, in a fraction of a second, that it would be better for me to control my crash and maybe I could get away unscathed. Well, I hit the pavement at what ever speed he was going and actually managed to keep my feet moving fast enough to give the impression that I made the right choice. I'm sure it was only a second or two but as is often the case, time slowed down in that moment, my feet were carrying me across the driveway. Shit, the curb is coming I should slow down...bad move...that curb is dangerously close and it seems that I am falling down. Ouch, curb is getting closer....fuck that hurts, was that a gasp I heard....OUCH. Silence. I skidded to a stop with a couple of inches to spare before my head would have smashed into the concrete curb.
What I remember next was pain, groaning and Danny berating me, again. I should have locked him that closet. Miraculously nothing seemed to be broken but I was bruised and bloody, pavement is funny that way. And in considerable pain. What did I tell my mom when she picked me up after my shift, I fell off a bike of course. This came as no surprise because I have had my share of bike "accidents". We went home got bandaged up a bit and tried to sleep but I was into much pain. She ended up taking me to emergency to get treated. I missed that next day of school and showed up a day later with my arm in a sling and a lot of hidden bruises. Danny thought I was looking for sympathy and I left myself wondering, really, why didn't I lock him up. Buzz Kill
So you can understand that I am surprised that I am still alive, these kinds of stories are just a small sampling of the stupid things I have done. Some under the influence but most not...my brain works funny. Or maybe it doesn't and all of us are like that to a certain extent. I wasn't alone every time I threw caution to the wind...partners in crime there were. What I will say, and this should come as no surprise, no regrets what so ever. I suppose you can trace a line through all the events in my life to where I am now and say, yep..I get it, makes sense now. Who knows but it certainly does provide for some funny stories.
Ciao
D
I've spoke of living without fear recently and I meant it within the context of being in my late 40's and of matters not so much physical as emotional and mental. In my teens, it was physical...I was pretty fearless, as most of us were because we were, if you recall, indestructible. It rarely crossed my mind that the next step I take might be my last, sure we can make that jump on our little BMX bikes. Yikes. Now I get the heebee jeebies when I watch my kids get within 50 feet of the dark stones at Peggy's Cove...fatherhood changes you.
One of my earlier jobs was working at an apartment complex that my friend Danny lived at. He hooked me up as a jack of all trades summer job. One day we're watering lawns the next we're scrubbing carpet runners and mopping the god damn stairs. Our boss was this short funny little guy named Manuel. He was from somewhere in Central America and funny as hell. Not an ounce of what we call PC now but he seemed like a good guy anyway. One day Manuel decides that the filters on the ventilation system needs changing. On the roof of each building stood HVAC units that seemingly had filters to be replaced. OK boss, we're on it. So up we go to the roof of one of the buildings on a beautiful and windless day, that's important by the way, the lack of gale force winds up 23 stories. Now, when you get to the roof there is a long way to get to the HVAC unit and the stupid way, any guesses on which one I took? Yep, not the longer way. The foot print of the building was such that it created a few "L" shaped corners all the way up the building, in one such spot was the opportunity to step to the other side of the roof and get to the units quicker. Problem was that you had to step across a gap that provided for a 23 story drop to the ground. In my defence, it was a small gap, a step really, so if you can take a normal sized step you were gold. Just don't look down...and check the wind before lifting your foot. So step across the chasm I did and finished my journey to the HVAC unit. I waited for Danny as we took the long way...the look on his face when he realised what I had done was awesome. In truth that's what I was looking for...his reaction. I might have mentioned that my humour is for me, I don't really care if anyone else finds it funny I'm amusing myself...this step stunt was for my amusement as well. I'm not much of a follower and really only a leader at work...I prefer to make my own path, if someone is there in front of me, fine, let him be in charge. And if someone is behind me...I didn't tell him or her to do that. He spent the rest of the day berating me for taking a risk like that and I wondered what would happen if I tied him up in a closet for the afternoon. Fuck...chill man.
This story my mom now knows about, I told her the truth just this year....30 years later. Once again we are back at the apartment complex and Danny and I worked a few nights a week doing light janitorial duties. Mostly we were face first in our arms sleeping at the lunch table while listening to Judas Priest on his huge 80's boom box. On one such shift we had actually taken off to go buy records downtown. I know...wtf right. Whatever, that's minor to some of the crap I pulled over the years. Case in point...
We would often have friends come visit us while we were working, or not, such as it was. On one such occasion one of our friends, named Dino if I remember correctly came up with his mom's old school station wagon, wood panelling and all. The styrofoam Big Mac containers were probably still falling out of it back then. Now, I don't know why we decided to do what we did but it must have seemed like a good idea at the time. We got on the back steel bumper, yes they were steel back then, held on to the roof rack and Dino was to drive us around the parking area. Before I go on I should mention that A. I was holding a can of freezing spray, a paint size can of spray that would enable you to scrape gum off of surfaces and B. Dino is a maniac. He hit 50 km/h up on that traffic circle, turns and all. So there I am holding on for dear life with only one hand fully engaged because of the damn can. I knew I was soon to fall off, I was sure as shit going to get flung from that car. So I decided to do a controlled crash landing type of thing. Think about that for a minute.....Yep, I jumped off. Insert shocked emoji. I reasoned, in a fraction of a second, that it would be better for me to control my crash and maybe I could get away unscathed. Well, I hit the pavement at what ever speed he was going and actually managed to keep my feet moving fast enough to give the impression that I made the right choice. I'm sure it was only a second or two but as is often the case, time slowed down in that moment, my feet were carrying me across the driveway. Shit, the curb is coming I should slow down...bad move...that curb is dangerously close and it seems that I am falling down. Ouch, curb is getting closer....fuck that hurts, was that a gasp I heard....OUCH. Silence. I skidded to a stop with a couple of inches to spare before my head would have smashed into the concrete curb.
What I remember next was pain, groaning and Danny berating me, again. I should have locked him that closet. Miraculously nothing seemed to be broken but I was bruised and bloody, pavement is funny that way. And in considerable pain. What did I tell my mom when she picked me up after my shift, I fell off a bike of course. This came as no surprise because I have had my share of bike "accidents". We went home got bandaged up a bit and tried to sleep but I was into much pain. She ended up taking me to emergency to get treated. I missed that next day of school and showed up a day later with my arm in a sling and a lot of hidden bruises. Danny thought I was looking for sympathy and I left myself wondering, really, why didn't I lock him up. Buzz Kill
So you can understand that I am surprised that I am still alive, these kinds of stories are just a small sampling of the stupid things I have done. Some under the influence but most not...my brain works funny. Or maybe it doesn't and all of us are like that to a certain extent. I wasn't alone every time I threw caution to the wind...partners in crime there were. What I will say, and this should come as no surprise, no regrets what so ever. I suppose you can trace a line through all the events in my life to where I am now and say, yep..I get it, makes sense now. Who knows but it certainly does provide for some funny stories.
Ciao
D
Thursday, 28 July 2016
More Tales From Beyond the Pass
In my younger days I was, how shall we put this, a little more quick to react without thinking. Not always of course but there were occasions when I snapped, simply lost my cool and there would be no confusing the look and tone that I was expressing. I've been told that I have a look, call it chef look, that essentially burns a hole through someone and exposes them to their own failings as human beings. I don't mean to but I can't discount the fact that it has happened. Thankfully it is a rare occurrence in my life now, I just don't get angry. I have never needed to be the Gordon Ramsey yelling kind of chef. Maybe that's where the look comes in, or maybe there is the belief that at any moment I might snap. And that, seemingly, keeps people in check. I don't know but I will relate a few humorous occasions when I did snap.
Back before opening the Inn I worked as the sous chef at the Prince George Hotel. My area of responsibility was acting as chef for the somewhat fine dining restaurant in the hotel, I would over see lunch and dinner service and generally make sure the place ran smooth. On one night that turned out to be busier than expected the usual happened, shit hit the fan. First the POS machine went down. The POS machine is the computer system that allows orders to be processed and kept track of....without it we are in the stone ages with hand written orders and suspect transactions. Normally, our motto is no chit, no shit. We won't cook anything unless there is a piece of paper telling us to do so. When the POS goes down we have no choice but to revert to smoke signals or calligraphy on parchment for our orders. So the night goes, busy but running relatively smoothly. I was by myself as I had sent one of the cooks home early, not expecting it to be busy. The front of house was a different story, they weren't ready for any type of busy and there was a new waiter on...let's call him Kevin. Kevin was stupid and he didn't know it. He thought he knew what he was doing and knew it better than anyone else, he also didn't understand the hierarchy in the kitchen. I should note that the top down nature of my business means that my word is law. When I was second in command my power flowed through the chef as his number two. You didn't question the chef, the only response was yes chef, can I have another chef.....of course, I didn't always follow that rule, because A. I'm a natural rebel sometimes and B. I generally know what I'm doing. I'll question when appropriate or for clarification. And almost always with respect.
Kevin did not understand this. As he ran around flustered I could see he was going to lose his shit within about eight minutes. Turns out I was wrong, it was three minutes, and lo and behold he lost it with me. The young man threw up a hand written chit on the line that was completely illegible. It looked like a monkey with dyslexia had gotten hold of a pen. I called him back over and told him I could not read the chit could he please re-do it. This is where the wheels came off, he threw the mangled piece of paper back at me and yelled, actually yelled, just cook the fucking food. Well....I'm Croatian by blood, and we Croatians have a line that travels up our heads as we snap, I'm sure mine was instant and blood red. The only thing that stopped me from flying through the pass was gravity itself. I envisioned choking this little shit with my dominant arm while working pans with my other arm. Instead I reamed it with my best chef voice. You can imagine the vitriol being spewed forth from yours truly. And unbelievably he didn't understand....he walked away oblivious to how close to death he really was.
The next day I was called into the chefs office to explain what happened the previous night. I did, I apologised and he showed his support. Next I had to meet with the F & B Manager with Kevin. I apologised for losing my cool and reiterated the expectation that I expected. The manager was impressed with my eloquence and than Kevin did one of the most bone headed things I've ever seen. He turned and looked at me and said, I'm not apologising just because anyone thinks I should. I don't think I did anything wrong. Suffice to say....never saw Kevin again.
Years later, wiser and more calm I had a busy day going at the resort I was running. Three weddings on one night, it's a challenge but nothing that couldn't be handled. Problem was that a certain banquet server was working and driving me bat shit crazy. It started in the morning and ended only during service. All day, in her high pitched south shore drawl, Chef? What about this? Chef? What about that? Chef? Where can I find ice? All day. I told her on a few occasions to go ask her boss because I didn't have time to deal with this. Anyway, fast forward to service time and one of my cooks had screwed up a bit with a task that she was doing. It's ok, fix it and move on...quickly. She did it again and now I can see the wheels about to fall of if I didn't reach in and fix things....there was an edge and I was on it. In walks in the server...Chef? What about that? Lost it completely....for fuck sakes, go ask your fucking boss and leave me the fuck alone. Fuck!!! I had to walk away and quickly cool down so I could finish service and not ruin three weddings, so I bounded into the walk in fridge and yelled out in frustration. That was it, I was now fine. Back into the kitchen and everyone is gone....I'm sure I had a stupid look on my face as I said out loud where did everyone go? In walks in my sous chef and in a stern like voice I told him to go fix whatever needed to be fixed and do it now. His reaction was precious, he grabbed a cart and started walking around in a panic saying I don't know what I need to fix but I need to fix it now because chef is scaring the shot out of me.
Eventually everyone came back, we finished service and that was that. I guess nobody at this place had seen me lose it, I was always calm and jovial, hell I carried balloons in my pocket because of the helium tanks around. So this motley crew didn't know how to react to "chef face". I heard later that a number of people had hidden in the banquet space with the bartender practically trembling. Every once in awhile you have to pull a Gordie Howe and throw an elbow, show people that poking the bear isn't in their best interest.
But I'm much more calm now....hahahaha
Ciao
D
Back before opening the Inn I worked as the sous chef at the Prince George Hotel. My area of responsibility was acting as chef for the somewhat fine dining restaurant in the hotel, I would over see lunch and dinner service and generally make sure the place ran smooth. On one night that turned out to be busier than expected the usual happened, shit hit the fan. First the POS machine went down. The POS machine is the computer system that allows orders to be processed and kept track of....without it we are in the stone ages with hand written orders and suspect transactions. Normally, our motto is no chit, no shit. We won't cook anything unless there is a piece of paper telling us to do so. When the POS goes down we have no choice but to revert to smoke signals or calligraphy on parchment for our orders. So the night goes, busy but running relatively smoothly. I was by myself as I had sent one of the cooks home early, not expecting it to be busy. The front of house was a different story, they weren't ready for any type of busy and there was a new waiter on...let's call him Kevin. Kevin was stupid and he didn't know it. He thought he knew what he was doing and knew it better than anyone else, he also didn't understand the hierarchy in the kitchen. I should note that the top down nature of my business means that my word is law. When I was second in command my power flowed through the chef as his number two. You didn't question the chef, the only response was yes chef, can I have another chef.....of course, I didn't always follow that rule, because A. I'm a natural rebel sometimes and B. I generally know what I'm doing. I'll question when appropriate or for clarification. And almost always with respect.
Kevin did not understand this. As he ran around flustered I could see he was going to lose his shit within about eight minutes. Turns out I was wrong, it was three minutes, and lo and behold he lost it with me. The young man threw up a hand written chit on the line that was completely illegible. It looked like a monkey with dyslexia had gotten hold of a pen. I called him back over and told him I could not read the chit could he please re-do it. This is where the wheels came off, he threw the mangled piece of paper back at me and yelled, actually yelled, just cook the fucking food. Well....I'm Croatian by blood, and we Croatians have a line that travels up our heads as we snap, I'm sure mine was instant and blood red. The only thing that stopped me from flying through the pass was gravity itself. I envisioned choking this little shit with my dominant arm while working pans with my other arm. Instead I reamed it with my best chef voice. You can imagine the vitriol being spewed forth from yours truly. And unbelievably he didn't understand....he walked away oblivious to how close to death he really was.
The next day I was called into the chefs office to explain what happened the previous night. I did, I apologised and he showed his support. Next I had to meet with the F & B Manager with Kevin. I apologised for losing my cool and reiterated the expectation that I expected. The manager was impressed with my eloquence and than Kevin did one of the most bone headed things I've ever seen. He turned and looked at me and said, I'm not apologising just because anyone thinks I should. I don't think I did anything wrong. Suffice to say....never saw Kevin again.
Years later, wiser and more calm I had a busy day going at the resort I was running. Three weddings on one night, it's a challenge but nothing that couldn't be handled. Problem was that a certain banquet server was working and driving me bat shit crazy. It started in the morning and ended only during service. All day, in her high pitched south shore drawl, Chef? What about this? Chef? What about that? Chef? Where can I find ice? All day. I told her on a few occasions to go ask her boss because I didn't have time to deal with this. Anyway, fast forward to service time and one of my cooks had screwed up a bit with a task that she was doing. It's ok, fix it and move on...quickly. She did it again and now I can see the wheels about to fall of if I didn't reach in and fix things....there was an edge and I was on it. In walks in the server...Chef? What about that? Lost it completely....for fuck sakes, go ask your fucking boss and leave me the fuck alone. Fuck!!! I had to walk away and quickly cool down so I could finish service and not ruin three weddings, so I bounded into the walk in fridge and yelled out in frustration. That was it, I was now fine. Back into the kitchen and everyone is gone....I'm sure I had a stupid look on my face as I said out loud where did everyone go? In walks in my sous chef and in a stern like voice I told him to go fix whatever needed to be fixed and do it now. His reaction was precious, he grabbed a cart and started walking around in a panic saying I don't know what I need to fix but I need to fix it now because chef is scaring the shot out of me.
Eventually everyone came back, we finished service and that was that. I guess nobody at this place had seen me lose it, I was always calm and jovial, hell I carried balloons in my pocket because of the helium tanks around. So this motley crew didn't know how to react to "chef face". I heard later that a number of people had hidden in the banquet space with the bartender practically trembling. Every once in awhile you have to pull a Gordie Howe and throw an elbow, show people that poking the bear isn't in their best interest.
But I'm much more calm now....hahahaha
Ciao
D
Wednesday, 27 July 2016
Fifty
Fifty ways to leave your lover? Fifty shades of grey? Labatt 50? Almost fifty years old? Nope, none of the above. This is my 50th post....woooohooooo!!!!! So I've said pretty much nothing fifty times over to nobody. Actually, that's not true, it seems that I have some readers. Some of you I think I know but I don't know anyone in China so it seems I have some readers out in the big world. Which is both nice and kind of cool. I'm not sure how it works when I post anew, if people are alerted or they have the page book marked or is it different random people across the internet. In any case, thank you for reading.
What started as a way of verbalising what I was thinking and going through when diagnosed with cancer has transformed into something totally different as the months went by. I've enjoyed attempting to sound coherent and the anonymity of the internet means I can say what I want when I want in whatever way I want which has unshackled me a bit and I feel I am learning from the act of blogging. Again...cool
And now, I'd like you to say hello and tell me where you're from. Don't be shy, I don't bite....much. As you may have gathered I like a good story, perhaps you can share with me. Perhaps your favourite quote will come my way. Make a comment here on the page or message me if you're a little more private. And those of you that I know, I expect a little note as well....some of you are very special to me. I will respond to all notes because that's the kind of guy I am.
I am looking forward to see how many people will pick up the gauntlet...
Ciao
D
What started as a way of verbalising what I was thinking and going through when diagnosed with cancer has transformed into something totally different as the months went by. I've enjoyed attempting to sound coherent and the anonymity of the internet means I can say what I want when I want in whatever way I want which has unshackled me a bit and I feel I am learning from the act of blogging. Again...cool
And now, I'd like you to say hello and tell me where you're from. Don't be shy, I don't bite....much. As you may have gathered I like a good story, perhaps you can share with me. Perhaps your favourite quote will come my way. Make a comment here on the page or message me if you're a little more private. And those of you that I know, I expect a little note as well....some of you are very special to me. I will respond to all notes because that's the kind of guy I am.
I am looking forward to see how many people will pick up the gauntlet...
Ciao
D
Madame President
Well, there we have it. Like her or not, Hilary Clinton is the nominee for the Democrats and hopefully the first female president of the US. I say hopefully not so much because of her, I'm a Bernie fan after all, but because it can't be Drumph. So listen closely Americans...do not allow that fraction of a man to become president or I'll come down and collectively punch you all in the throat.
I'm not sure I understand the visceral hatred of Hilary that we keep hearing about, it almost feels like it's personal, and if that's the case, could it be hatred of a candidate because she is a woman? If so, go fuck yourselves. I'm getting pretty tired of that kind of crap, sexism, racism, ageism, sarcasm...no wait, I love sarcasm, but you get the idea. She is more than capable and carries experience that most only dream of for the highest position in the world, yet she gets attacked for her pant suits. Really? Is she perfect? Nope. Has she screwed up? Yep But I do believe she has the gravitas and drive to do what is right. For sure she cares deeply about the plight of the downtrodden and especially children so why is that she has the same kind of favour-ability numbers as the orangutan? Answer me that will you.
I know that the country is pretty divided on issues of who to vote. You have a percentage of the population that will vote Republican even if the candidate was a pole with a hat on it, or Drumph. Same goes for the Dem's I am sure. It's the people in the middle, the fence sitters, independents and those rare people that are actually interested in voting based on what is best for the country that end up deciding the outcome. I would imagine it's like that all over the world, those of us lucky enough to be able to actually vote and make it count, yes I'm looking at you Russia. Imagine that? Voting for the person that you think would actually be good for the country as opposed to partisan bullshit. Utopia where are you?
Who was it that said democracy was the worst form of government out there, except for all the others, Churchill I think. He should know, they screwed him over good after, I don't know, carrying Britain on his back during WWII. Rife with corruption and influence peddling, fractured demagoguery that can't seem to get out of their own way...but still better than Putin and way better than China, North Korea and their ilk. Hell in a hand basket can seem like an appropriate sentiment some time but the alternative would be so much worse.
Think her pant suits are really that bad now? Or her hair? And she made a personal decision to stay with slick Willie. Was it for political reasons? I'm sure that played a part in it, so what? With the current discourse going on one almost wishes for the good old days of George Bush junior....ok, not really but you get the idea. Returning to a Clinton seems like Xanadu in my books.
I wish her well and hope she does become the first female president. And I wish that in 5 years we no longer even mention that as a thing. While we're at it, it would be nice if race and sexuality were no longer considered litmus tests of ability.
Choose wisely America...we are watching
Ciao
D
I'm not sure I understand the visceral hatred of Hilary that we keep hearing about, it almost feels like it's personal, and if that's the case, could it be hatred of a candidate because she is a woman? If so, go fuck yourselves. I'm getting pretty tired of that kind of crap, sexism, racism, ageism, sarcasm...no wait, I love sarcasm, but you get the idea. She is more than capable and carries experience that most only dream of for the highest position in the world, yet she gets attacked for her pant suits. Really? Is she perfect? Nope. Has she screwed up? Yep But I do believe she has the gravitas and drive to do what is right. For sure she cares deeply about the plight of the downtrodden and especially children so why is that she has the same kind of favour-ability numbers as the orangutan? Answer me that will you.
I know that the country is pretty divided on issues of who to vote. You have a percentage of the population that will vote Republican even if the candidate was a pole with a hat on it, or Drumph. Same goes for the Dem's I am sure. It's the people in the middle, the fence sitters, independents and those rare people that are actually interested in voting based on what is best for the country that end up deciding the outcome. I would imagine it's like that all over the world, those of us lucky enough to be able to actually vote and make it count, yes I'm looking at you Russia. Imagine that? Voting for the person that you think would actually be good for the country as opposed to partisan bullshit. Utopia where are you?
Who was it that said democracy was the worst form of government out there, except for all the others, Churchill I think. He should know, they screwed him over good after, I don't know, carrying Britain on his back during WWII. Rife with corruption and influence peddling, fractured demagoguery that can't seem to get out of their own way...but still better than Putin and way better than China, North Korea and their ilk. Hell in a hand basket can seem like an appropriate sentiment some time but the alternative would be so much worse.
Think her pant suits are really that bad now? Or her hair? And she made a personal decision to stay with slick Willie. Was it for political reasons? I'm sure that played a part in it, so what? With the current discourse going on one almost wishes for the good old days of George Bush junior....ok, not really but you get the idea. Returning to a Clinton seems like Xanadu in my books.
I wish her well and hope she does become the first female president. And I wish that in 5 years we no longer even mention that as a thing. While we're at it, it would be nice if race and sexuality were no longer considered litmus tests of ability.
Choose wisely America...we are watching
Ciao
D
Tuesday, 26 July 2016
Schools out
I recently found out that my high school was going to be shuttering its doors next year, after over 30 years in it's current location Don Bosco will be no more. I don't know what to think about that, so here I am typing about it. So bare with me while I work through this.
I loved high school, especially in the last few years when it seemed that we were kings of the world, or at least the school. Things seemed to align just so in the last few years of our time in purgatory, the right combination of beer, music and hormones. Starting with a legendary trip to Quebec and ending with the equally legendary graduation and prom week celebrations. It had nothing to do with school work and learning for our future, it was about the bonds of friendship in that time. It was a grand time in my life and I loved it. The school played the backdrop to our lives. We had to be there and we had to work to ensure we moved on in life. Some easier than others. My school work suffered mightily in those last two years and it can be directly related to getting my license and having a social life. Oh, and introducing the alphabet into math. I wrote in my final year book that my biggest pet peeve was going through 5 years of math and not finding "x". I barely passed some courses but I didn't care, it was about the gang.
Don Bosco is a Catholic high school, so yes I wore a blazer, sometimes, shirt and tie and dressed the part of a private school flunky. It also meant that religion played a part in every day life at school. Morning prayers, monthly masses, religion classes and deviant priests walking the halls. And I say that as a fact as opposed to personal belief. There were some issues to be sure. Woven into this cornucopia of hormones, rebellion and education was a rag tag group of friends, 16 guys and gals that commandeered a back hallway and lived our lives by our own set of rules and codes. Like any group dynamic we had leaders, followers and stoners. A fierce loyalty had developed between most of us and as time went by an almost legendary mythology grew around us and our exploits.
In the beginning we were never invited to parties, which mattered not because we would show up anyway. Garbage bags full of ice and beer were dragged down to the basement where we would congregate around the water heater or washing machine and immersed ourselves into our own world. We didn't give a shit about what the "cool" kids were doing, we were doing our thing. Topics ranging from wrestling to religion. From the hot new girl in history class to politics and the art of sacrifice. We swore, drank and had a good time. We never caused trouble, we just wanted a place to sip some beer and shoot the shit. Unfortunately, alcohol being what it is means that someone is going to say something to someone at some point. The preps as a group didn't like us and we didn't care much for them, the whole Greaser vs Soc thing from The Outsiders. But wait, there were more, the Ginos, the metal heads, the jocks...as a group, none were liked. But you could like individual members just fine. There were fights occasionally and some choice words were said but I don't imagine it was any different any where else.
Devils music played too loudly, impromptu handball games, skipping class, roaming the halls out of boredom and a desire to foment rebellion. I could write 50 posts on individual events that I still remember and cherish. The Spoons playing at the school, Mr Martin's 50th birthday with a case of Labatt 50, battle of the bands 1.0 and 2.0, my locker....50 may be conservative.
After a while we noticed a shift in attitude from the general school population with regards to us. We started to become liked. Truth be told, individually we were mostly liked but now the "group" was getting some love. People didn't threaten to call the cops on us for showing up at the door uninvited. They allowed us to roam freely through the house. It was kind of funny and then someone actually invited us to a party and that was just weird. It felt like this person, who I happened to know, wanted to build her credibility by inviting us...we never went...hahaha.
High school was about that social life that we led. The drinking, the risk taking, the bonds of friendship that mostly disappeared after we graduated...that was what we lived for. We had our share of turbulence but mostly it worked because we didn't compete with each other. We did us and managed to do us within the loose confines of our bunch of hooligans. Bit by bit there was some erosion which generally followed when group members became more than friends...actually, thinking back that caused a lot of trouble for us and for me. But that's for another day...maybe. Good times...haha
So now the school is closing and it seems there is going to be a reunion of some sort next year. I might just go, again, not so much for the school as for the people. Most I have lost track of but it would still be good to see them again and see the people that I have stayed in contact with. Sharing stories and seeing where life has taken people. Another milestone to mark in this thing called life. And who knows, perhaps friendships can be renewed. Wouldn't that be something.
Hmmmmmmmm
D
I loved high school, especially in the last few years when it seemed that we were kings of the world, or at least the school. Things seemed to align just so in the last few years of our time in purgatory, the right combination of beer, music and hormones. Starting with a legendary trip to Quebec and ending with the equally legendary graduation and prom week celebrations. It had nothing to do with school work and learning for our future, it was about the bonds of friendship in that time. It was a grand time in my life and I loved it. The school played the backdrop to our lives. We had to be there and we had to work to ensure we moved on in life. Some easier than others. My school work suffered mightily in those last two years and it can be directly related to getting my license and having a social life. Oh, and introducing the alphabet into math. I wrote in my final year book that my biggest pet peeve was going through 5 years of math and not finding "x". I barely passed some courses but I didn't care, it was about the gang.
Don Bosco is a Catholic high school, so yes I wore a blazer, sometimes, shirt and tie and dressed the part of a private school flunky. It also meant that religion played a part in every day life at school. Morning prayers, monthly masses, religion classes and deviant priests walking the halls. And I say that as a fact as opposed to personal belief. There were some issues to be sure. Woven into this cornucopia of hormones, rebellion and education was a rag tag group of friends, 16 guys and gals that commandeered a back hallway and lived our lives by our own set of rules and codes. Like any group dynamic we had leaders, followers and stoners. A fierce loyalty had developed between most of us and as time went by an almost legendary mythology grew around us and our exploits.
In the beginning we were never invited to parties, which mattered not because we would show up anyway. Garbage bags full of ice and beer were dragged down to the basement where we would congregate around the water heater or washing machine and immersed ourselves into our own world. We didn't give a shit about what the "cool" kids were doing, we were doing our thing. Topics ranging from wrestling to religion. From the hot new girl in history class to politics and the art of sacrifice. We swore, drank and had a good time. We never caused trouble, we just wanted a place to sip some beer and shoot the shit. Unfortunately, alcohol being what it is means that someone is going to say something to someone at some point. The preps as a group didn't like us and we didn't care much for them, the whole Greaser vs Soc thing from The Outsiders. But wait, there were more, the Ginos, the metal heads, the jocks...as a group, none were liked. But you could like individual members just fine. There were fights occasionally and some choice words were said but I don't imagine it was any different any where else.
Devils music played too loudly, impromptu handball games, skipping class, roaming the halls out of boredom and a desire to foment rebellion. I could write 50 posts on individual events that I still remember and cherish. The Spoons playing at the school, Mr Martin's 50th birthday with a case of Labatt 50, battle of the bands 1.0 and 2.0, my locker....50 may be conservative.
After a while we noticed a shift in attitude from the general school population with regards to us. We started to become liked. Truth be told, individually we were mostly liked but now the "group" was getting some love. People didn't threaten to call the cops on us for showing up at the door uninvited. They allowed us to roam freely through the house. It was kind of funny and then someone actually invited us to a party and that was just weird. It felt like this person, who I happened to know, wanted to build her credibility by inviting us...we never went...hahaha.
High school was about that social life that we led. The drinking, the risk taking, the bonds of friendship that mostly disappeared after we graduated...that was what we lived for. We had our share of turbulence but mostly it worked because we didn't compete with each other. We did us and managed to do us within the loose confines of our bunch of hooligans. Bit by bit there was some erosion which generally followed when group members became more than friends...actually, thinking back that caused a lot of trouble for us and for me. But that's for another day...maybe. Good times...haha
So now the school is closing and it seems there is going to be a reunion of some sort next year. I might just go, again, not so much for the school as for the people. Most I have lost track of but it would still be good to see them again and see the people that I have stayed in contact with. Sharing stories and seeing where life has taken people. Another milestone to mark in this thing called life. And who knows, perhaps friendships can be renewed. Wouldn't that be something.
Hmmmmmmmm
D
Monday, 25 July 2016
Fearless
I am relatively recent Facebooker, having joined back up in October I think. My first stint a few years back pissed me off and I only really went on to make my ex happy. It'll be great, you can catch up with old friends. Really, because i was hermit like before that and so hard to get a hold of? The straw that broke the proverbial camels back was a waitress at work posting every time she did something new. I went to the store today. I just fed the cat. I had a bowel movement. And then the final final straw, a very religious sort of person and she wrote, "I don't need food or water, the breath of God will sustain me" Oy vey!!! Really, then get your grubby hands out of the fry bowl for the 18th time tonight and no you can't have a caesar salad...let God feed you. I deleted my profile the next morning but not without having a little inadvertent fun. I posted a note saying I was leaving Facebook and if anyone needed or wanted to chat, they could find me easily enough. That note supposedly started a chain of reply all type messages with people wondering what was wrong....hahaha.
This time around I went on line of my own accord and specifically for family stuff. Having said that I have come to enjoy some of what I do and see on Facebook now and have become a regular shit disturber in my own way. I ignore and delete people that I don't want to hear about or espouse views that make me want to reach for Lucille...just saying. I'm much more calm these days...hahaha
Get to the point stupid!
Yes I know I'm getting there. As you all know FB is full of positive life affirming pictures, videos, self help phrases and the like. And cats. One of the ones I have come across recently is to live life fearlessly. I like that sentiment as I'm sure many do. It feeds the hidden rebel in us all. Points us towards an ideal that we would like to live up to. Give the naysayers the finger and do your thing, be you. Or be the guy that jumps out of the plane. Or...well, anything really. At first glance, it seems pretty clear that the phrase seems to embody taking yourself out of your comfort zone. If you're comfortable on the ground, then climb that mountain and bungee jump off that bridge. Live dammit...live!!!
Taking yourself out of your comfort zone is a good thing to do. A lot. I do whenever I can and I love the learning about myself and life that happens when I do. It's a coupling of my naivete, wonder and desire to see and do as much as I can. Now, I wish I could do the big things now...move to Greece for three months, live over a bakery and assimilate into the culture...but I can't. Not yet. But I dream about it and plan for it when I can make things a reality. That's the easy stuff in my book, the low hanging fruit.
If you've read any of my posts you do know that I have essentially not given a crap about what people have thought of me or what I do for quite a long time. Not everyone can and that trepidation is hard to overcome, we essentially live in fear of the what if. And that can't be a good thing, we are letting fear rule our lives, whether we realise it or not. Fear of failure, of ridicule, of exposure, of hurt.....of many things, prevent us from doing or feeling so many things.Read back to my Epictetus post and know that you have to come to a place in your life where you won't let fear of anything rule your life. It's hard of course but I truly believe that you miss out on too much to acquiesce to that fear.
So repeat after me:
I won't be afraid to step out that door into some new experience
I won't be afraid to fail
I won't be afraid to learn
I won't be afraid to fall in love
I won't be afraid to be loved
Live life abundantly and fearlessly. Those are the words I want my kids to know. That and be kind.
Oh, and The Blues Brother classic - "It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark... and we're wearing sunglasses."
Ciao
D
Friday, 22 July 2016
Back From Away
Having safely returned from a road trip to Ontario with some of my brood I am slowly working my way back into reality. Work reality, home reality, East Coast reality...just reality ok. We had a good time visiting and doing touristy things. Stinking hot though, pause for thought if I was to ever consider moving back to the big smoke...that and traffic.
Having said that there are some real upsides to the big city. The plethora of restaurants, the culture, the museums and the sheer number of things to do are exceptional. Another thing I really enjoyed was the neighbourhoods. Driving through Bloor West Village on a busy Friday afternoon while heading to the ROM rekindled a certain nostalgia for the neighbourhood fruit stand beside the bakery beside the butcher or deli. Sure, these days you have to insert a Starbucks and MacDonald's into the mix but there remains a certain charm that you don't really get here in Halifax. Closest I can think of is the Hydrostone area. The difference seems to be the fact that the shops bordering the main street are fortified on either side by homes. Lots of homes on neatly rowed streets, with lots of kids running around, retired folk watching over the neighbourhood (who needs an alarm system when you have nonna on the job) People live there. All kinds of people. Proud Portuguese flag wavers (Euro2016 of course), Korean neighbourhoods with corresponding signs for the population. It really is a cornucopia of culture, bound together with food and family and traditions. I kind of miss that. It seems the teeming population is face forward there while here in Halifax, you have pockets of people wandering around but not in the same way. They don't have their bags full of fruit from Guido's or some sliced cured meats from Paulo's. Yes, we have Ratinaud here, which is excellent, but it seems to be a niche and therefore an expensive way to get your fix of pate and proscuitto. It's different.
And when we moved on to Old Quebec City I fell in love again. A long past love affair rekindled. My God how I love that place. Yes I know, visiting is not the same as living there but just let me have my fantasy will you. Steep, narrow cobblestone streets simply exuding old world charm. Cafes, bistros and artisan shops...I had the biggest grin on my face and could not contain my pure glee at being back in the quarter. My kids certainly think I am certifiable after my jubilant response. Nine hours of driving could not deter me from sending a few precious hours behind that magnificent walled city. Dining al fresco, riding the funicular, strolling around the Chateau Frontenac...yes please, can I have some more. I related to my kids how when you come to this magical city in the winter you feel like you're in a snow globe. I know my soul belongs in Europe but the grand dame would fill in pretty good I think.....le sigh
Well, perhaps I should do some work.
Ciao
D
Having said that there are some real upsides to the big city. The plethora of restaurants, the culture, the museums and the sheer number of things to do are exceptional. Another thing I really enjoyed was the neighbourhoods. Driving through Bloor West Village on a busy Friday afternoon while heading to the ROM rekindled a certain nostalgia for the neighbourhood fruit stand beside the bakery beside the butcher or deli. Sure, these days you have to insert a Starbucks and MacDonald's into the mix but there remains a certain charm that you don't really get here in Halifax. Closest I can think of is the Hydrostone area. The difference seems to be the fact that the shops bordering the main street are fortified on either side by homes. Lots of homes on neatly rowed streets, with lots of kids running around, retired folk watching over the neighbourhood (who needs an alarm system when you have nonna on the job) People live there. All kinds of people. Proud Portuguese flag wavers (Euro2016 of course), Korean neighbourhoods with corresponding signs for the population. It really is a cornucopia of culture, bound together with food and family and traditions. I kind of miss that. It seems the teeming population is face forward there while here in Halifax, you have pockets of people wandering around but not in the same way. They don't have their bags full of fruit from Guido's or some sliced cured meats from Paulo's. Yes, we have Ratinaud here, which is excellent, but it seems to be a niche and therefore an expensive way to get your fix of pate and proscuitto. It's different.
And when we moved on to Old Quebec City I fell in love again. A long past love affair rekindled. My God how I love that place. Yes I know, visiting is not the same as living there but just let me have my fantasy will you. Steep, narrow cobblestone streets simply exuding old world charm. Cafes, bistros and artisan shops...I had the biggest grin on my face and could not contain my pure glee at being back in the quarter. My kids certainly think I am certifiable after my jubilant response. Nine hours of driving could not deter me from sending a few precious hours behind that magnificent walled city. Dining al fresco, riding the funicular, strolling around the Chateau Frontenac...yes please, can I have some more. I related to my kids how when you come to this magical city in the winter you feel like you're in a snow globe. I know my soul belongs in Europe but the grand dame would fill in pretty good I think.....le sigh
Well, perhaps I should do some work.
Ciao
D
Thursday, 7 July 2016
Dear Mr Policeman
Dear Mr Policeman,
This is going to be difficult to put into words that represent what I am thinking but maybe, just maybe...stop shooting black people in such horrendous numbers would be a good place to start. Two shootings that I am aware of this week and I saw somewhere at least 114 this year alone. Everyone with a conscience should know about the race problem in America. Not just being racists but how the system is dealing with the problem as a whole. And before we Canadians slap ourselves on the back, we're racist too and we have our systematic problems as well. This is not a uniquely American problem but certainly in America you're taking a chance with actually making it home alive from a traffic stop or trying to sell a cd or two on the side of the road. What the fuck America?
I can't help but circle back to the whole gun debate. A cop knows that there is a good chance anyone he is pulling over has a gun on their person. Mostly legal. And I get that there are stats out there that would make anyone wary of approaching, well, anyone really. It seems America is simply an angry place and reaction with resistance or violence can seem reasonable...so how fucked up is that? So we have the police always on edge and never knowing if this is the time that a punk pulls out a real glock. Blacks and Latinos knowing they are going to be roughed up because they are black or Latino. Recipe for carnage my friends. And sadly, I get it from both sides. Being a policeman is thankless and dangerous. Being black means you have a target on your back a lot of the time. It's a sad reality. So what do we do?
Well, for one, stop being so quick to the trigger. There are multiple things to address here; training, attitude, relations with a community, engagement and so on and they really need to be worked on simultaneously. Open your hearts and minds to your community and maybe we won't need to read about another victim of police brutality. And while were at it, everyone needs to take a good hard long look in the mirror. Blacks, whites, Latinos and everyone else, be honest...are we doing the best we can for our children? Am I a positive role model or am I part of the problem. No one ever takes responsibility for themselves...it is always someone else's fault. They're to blame for our lot in life. Stop that shit....everyone just needs to stop. Instead of pulling a trigger, open your hand in embrace. Open your ears and your heart. What is left but to talk. Figure it out and get moving because if we don't...the civil unrest heading your way is going to make Trump a very happy man while blood and tears flow in the streets.
Start talking
This is going to be difficult to put into words that represent what I am thinking but maybe, just maybe...stop shooting black people in such horrendous numbers would be a good place to start. Two shootings that I am aware of this week and I saw somewhere at least 114 this year alone. Everyone with a conscience should know about the race problem in America. Not just being racists but how the system is dealing with the problem as a whole. And before we Canadians slap ourselves on the back, we're racist too and we have our systematic problems as well. This is not a uniquely American problem but certainly in America you're taking a chance with actually making it home alive from a traffic stop or trying to sell a cd or two on the side of the road. What the fuck America?
I can't help but circle back to the whole gun debate. A cop knows that there is a good chance anyone he is pulling over has a gun on their person. Mostly legal. And I get that there are stats out there that would make anyone wary of approaching, well, anyone really. It seems America is simply an angry place and reaction with resistance or violence can seem reasonable...so how fucked up is that? So we have the police always on edge and never knowing if this is the time that a punk pulls out a real glock. Blacks and Latinos knowing they are going to be roughed up because they are black or Latino. Recipe for carnage my friends. And sadly, I get it from both sides. Being a policeman is thankless and dangerous. Being black means you have a target on your back a lot of the time. It's a sad reality. So what do we do?
Well, for one, stop being so quick to the trigger. There are multiple things to address here; training, attitude, relations with a community, engagement and so on and they really need to be worked on simultaneously. Open your hearts and minds to your community and maybe we won't need to read about another victim of police brutality. And while were at it, everyone needs to take a good hard long look in the mirror. Blacks, whites, Latinos and everyone else, be honest...are we doing the best we can for our children? Am I a positive role model or am I part of the problem. No one ever takes responsibility for themselves...it is always someone else's fault. They're to blame for our lot in life. Stop that shit....everyone just needs to stop. Instead of pulling a trigger, open your hand in embrace. Open your ears and your heart. What is left but to talk. Figure it out and get moving because if we don't...the civil unrest heading your way is going to make Trump a very happy man while blood and tears flow in the streets.
Start talking
Wednesday, 6 July 2016
Fire and fun
If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. I've tried but can't seem to escape...maybe I'm not wholeheartedly trying to I guess. It is comfortable for me to be sure and I am decent at what I do but I'm not sure if I could ever truly fit in at a "normal" job. What would I do? Could I use the same language and mannerisms that are now part of my chef persona? Could I give the "look" and not have HR hauling me in to discuss alternative communication techniques? Really? Would you like to take your non mechanised erasable transcription tool and push it in your ear for me? Maybe I should stay put....
I can't imagine what kind of life it would be without the sometimes raucous cacophony of man and machine....as I sit here typing this is what I can hear. A cart rumbled by with plates and glassware on it that need to be put in their proper place. A crap song from the 80's...I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight, is on the radio. I can hear the vent system humming away. Someone is scrambling up eggs on the flat top and the spatula is doing it's dance across the steel. Someone I don't like is speaking with borrowed words from the Brits in an attempt to make her sound smarter than she will ever be...it's lovely, brilliant and so on. And while I can't hear it I know there is the ever present flame. Fire is the thing in our world. No fire no food. It is the medium by which a very large percentage of our work is based around. Raw beef + seasoning + heat = delicious steak. The cooks world is so intertwined with fire that for the most part none of us are even remotely phased by the appearance of flames at unexpected times. I was demonstrating a dish to some cooks once and my side towel caught on fire without me noticing it, I got two cooks looking at me and in dead pan tone they come to my rescue; look at me, point at my towel and say you're on fire chef. We don't get that freaked out. I had a BBQ blowout in my face once and it was funny. I lived, so what if I need new eyebrows.
When I owned the B & B in Lunenburg I spent a lot of time working...a lot. So my time with my kids was sporadic and opportunistic during the busy season. A stolen kiss here, a quick book read there and, well you get the idea. I liked having them sit up on my work station trying to keep quiet while I made breakfast for the guests and would feed them pancakes or french toast. God those were fun times. It was habit at night that the kids would come in to give me a kiss goodnight while I was in the middle of service. On one such occasion my oldest daughter, who would have been around four at the time and fiercely independent, came in by herself to wish me a goodnight and get a hug. As she rounded the corner and caught sight of me her arms instinctively started going up in the universal symbol for pick me up now buddy. That's as far as she got though, because you see I was in the middle of sauteing something and as is the norm when flame and fat meet a flame or two had shot up into the air. Her reaction is still laugh inducing, as loud as she could have mustered she yelled "Daddy!!! FIRE!!!!" and ran out of the kitchen slamming the heavy door behind her as she head back into our residence. Beautiful. Watching her run off in her onesie like a bat out of hell was hilarious. I remember a few guests commenting about it later on thinking it was cute. It was.
Another not so cute story about the power of fire comes to you courtesy of a friend of mine Peter. We we're working at a golf club outside of Toronto, doing a BBQ for 144 moronic members. We disliked this group of pretentious cheapskates a lot, but there was one old fuck we really hated. He was rude and disgusting with staff and people in general. Always had a quip designed to put you on edge and repeated them ad nauseum, such as when asked how he would like his steak prepared - "rip it's horns off, wipe it's ass and make sure it still can moo". Rare it is. So, the end of season BBQ is upon us and as usual Peter and I are on the deck baking over a charcoal fire zipping through T-Bone steaks. Way down the line you can hear Mr Jones being his usual ass hole like self. Peter had had enough. Watch this he says. He took a pair of tongs and stuck the ends into the embers of the charcoal to sit for a few minutes. As the dink got closer he got more abusive, don't burn my steak boys - you know how I like it. Oh we know so shut the fuck up already. And then we have the moment of truth. "hello Mr Jones, how are you today" says Peter as a way of throwing him off the impending trouble. "I'm great, shot a 75 so can I get a bigger steak" was the reply from the Tilley Hat wearing mother clucker. "Sure, I have one right here, rare as can be" and than Peter took the steak with the tongs that were embedded in the hot coals and did the old flip the steak and burn your thumbs off routine. Never heard of it? By applying a quarter turn of your right hand you flip the steak onto the plate and subsequently the edge of he tongs can brush up against the thumb of the plate holder. It was probably three or four seconds of pure symphonic pleasure. The sizzle of steaks and chattering golfers interrupted with a loud yelp as the tongs hit this bastards thumbs, his plate and steak went flying into the air and off the deck. A microsecond of quiet followed by apologies and laughter. He was, obviously supremely pissed but that's as far as it ever went.
See, fire can be fun.
Ciao
D
I can't imagine what kind of life it would be without the sometimes raucous cacophony of man and machine....as I sit here typing this is what I can hear. A cart rumbled by with plates and glassware on it that need to be put in their proper place. A crap song from the 80's...I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight, is on the radio. I can hear the vent system humming away. Someone is scrambling up eggs on the flat top and the spatula is doing it's dance across the steel. Someone I don't like is speaking with borrowed words from the Brits in an attempt to make her sound smarter than she will ever be...it's lovely, brilliant and so on. And while I can't hear it I know there is the ever present flame. Fire is the thing in our world. No fire no food. It is the medium by which a very large percentage of our work is based around. Raw beef + seasoning + heat = delicious steak. The cooks world is so intertwined with fire that for the most part none of us are even remotely phased by the appearance of flames at unexpected times. I was demonstrating a dish to some cooks once and my side towel caught on fire without me noticing it, I got two cooks looking at me and in dead pan tone they come to my rescue; look at me, point at my towel and say you're on fire chef. We don't get that freaked out. I had a BBQ blowout in my face once and it was funny. I lived, so what if I need new eyebrows.
When I owned the B & B in Lunenburg I spent a lot of time working...a lot. So my time with my kids was sporadic and opportunistic during the busy season. A stolen kiss here, a quick book read there and, well you get the idea. I liked having them sit up on my work station trying to keep quiet while I made breakfast for the guests and would feed them pancakes or french toast. God those were fun times. It was habit at night that the kids would come in to give me a kiss goodnight while I was in the middle of service. On one such occasion my oldest daughter, who would have been around four at the time and fiercely independent, came in by herself to wish me a goodnight and get a hug. As she rounded the corner and caught sight of me her arms instinctively started going up in the universal symbol for pick me up now buddy. That's as far as she got though, because you see I was in the middle of sauteing something and as is the norm when flame and fat meet a flame or two had shot up into the air. Her reaction is still laugh inducing, as loud as she could have mustered she yelled "Daddy!!! FIRE!!!!" and ran out of the kitchen slamming the heavy door behind her as she head back into our residence. Beautiful. Watching her run off in her onesie like a bat out of hell was hilarious. I remember a few guests commenting about it later on thinking it was cute. It was.
Another not so cute story about the power of fire comes to you courtesy of a friend of mine Peter. We we're working at a golf club outside of Toronto, doing a BBQ for 144 moronic members. We disliked this group of pretentious cheapskates a lot, but there was one old fuck we really hated. He was rude and disgusting with staff and people in general. Always had a quip designed to put you on edge and repeated them ad nauseum, such as when asked how he would like his steak prepared - "rip it's horns off, wipe it's ass and make sure it still can moo". Rare it is. So, the end of season BBQ is upon us and as usual Peter and I are on the deck baking over a charcoal fire zipping through T-Bone steaks. Way down the line you can hear Mr Jones being his usual ass hole like self. Peter had had enough. Watch this he says. He took a pair of tongs and stuck the ends into the embers of the charcoal to sit for a few minutes. As the dink got closer he got more abusive, don't burn my steak boys - you know how I like it. Oh we know so shut the fuck up already. And then we have the moment of truth. "hello Mr Jones, how are you today" says Peter as a way of throwing him off the impending trouble. "I'm great, shot a 75 so can I get a bigger steak" was the reply from the Tilley Hat wearing mother clucker. "Sure, I have one right here, rare as can be" and than Peter took the steak with the tongs that were embedded in the hot coals and did the old flip the steak and burn your thumbs off routine. Never heard of it? By applying a quarter turn of your right hand you flip the steak onto the plate and subsequently the edge of he tongs can brush up against the thumb of the plate holder. It was probably three or four seconds of pure symphonic pleasure. The sizzle of steaks and chattering golfers interrupted with a loud yelp as the tongs hit this bastards thumbs, his plate and steak went flying into the air and off the deck. A microsecond of quiet followed by apologies and laughter. He was, obviously supremely pissed but that's as far as it ever went.
See, fire can be fun.
Ciao
D
Tuesday, 5 July 2016
La foie gras
Do you like foie gras? Be honest, don't tell me what you think I might want to hear. I love it of course. For me, it is decadence personified and when I get the chance to feature it on a special menu I know I will get a little feast for myself and the adventurous members of my team...yum, yum.
I have sampled it as a pâté, a torchon, cured, pan sautéed, mousse and as a component of a dish. Each unique preparation method brings about a series of different responses from yours truly...all of them involve sighing and wine. Just saying. I can almost be greedy about the organ too. If people are looking to order my creation I hope they appreciate what they are getting. Not just the cost, which is exorbitant, but the effort that goes into bringing that piece of fatty heaven to you. If they don't or worse turn up their nose to the very idea of eating liver, I don't want to let them near it....it's mine, all mine. Bring some bread and a crusty baguette and I will share...gladly. But those other people...uhm GFY
I believe it was the millennium. That hyped non event known as Y2K, where we bought generators for the impending power outages and a certain percentage of the population was sure it was rapture time. Get a grip. So, being a crazy chef and entrepreneur we put out a nice spread for New Years Eve that night. An early seating for the people that wanted to be in bed before 10:00 or had other plans and a later seating for those that wished to be bringing in the new year with my food in front of them surrounded bu freinds. In my humble opinion, I out did myself that night. Both seatings were executed flawlessly and kudos and cash rolled in. On the menu was an appetiser of pan seared foie gras with port, black eyed peas vinaigrette and a Riesling drizzle. Yum ,yum. Now, I knew for sure that the foie gras wasn't going to be my big seller that night and I was quite ok with that. Because I knew that I would get to eat the foie gras over the next few days....indeed, I think Scott came over the next morning and we had some for breakfast. Yum, yum.
When searing the foie gras it becomes your centre of the universe while it is cooking away. Turn your back for a second too long and you have a hot melted pool of duck fat for your effort as said foie gras melts away. You have to focus. And you have to think about the plate composition. The foie is fatty, very fatty. You need something sharp or acidic to cut against that a bit....in comes the bean salad. Which also provides a texture contrast to the velvety smoothness of the the liver. A third flavour profile comes from the wine. A reduced syrup with some added sugar to help with the body of the sauce to perk up your taste buds as you take that first bite. Yum, yum. Bring it all together for a delicious and harmonious dish...which I'm not sharing if you're not worthy. True story - when I was younger I would say things like they don't deserve this kind of food when I was particularly pleased with my creation. I know right....smart ass
So my ode to foie gras brings me to the next morning, sitting over a hot skillet sopping up fatty remnants of the seared foie gras with some excellent french baguette, a glass of wine and wondering why the world didn't blow up or my toaster for that fact. My trifecta of perfection - good food, good wine and good friends. Yum, yum.
Ciao
D
I have sampled it as a pâté, a torchon, cured, pan sautéed, mousse and as a component of a dish. Each unique preparation method brings about a series of different responses from yours truly...all of them involve sighing and wine. Just saying. I can almost be greedy about the organ too. If people are looking to order my creation I hope they appreciate what they are getting. Not just the cost, which is exorbitant, but the effort that goes into bringing that piece of fatty heaven to you. If they don't or worse turn up their nose to the very idea of eating liver, I don't want to let them near it....it's mine, all mine. Bring some bread and a crusty baguette and I will share...gladly. But those other people...uhm GFY
I believe it was the millennium. That hyped non event known as Y2K, where we bought generators for the impending power outages and a certain percentage of the population was sure it was rapture time. Get a grip. So, being a crazy chef and entrepreneur we put out a nice spread for New Years Eve that night. An early seating for the people that wanted to be in bed before 10:00 or had other plans and a later seating for those that wished to be bringing in the new year with my food in front of them surrounded bu freinds. In my humble opinion, I out did myself that night. Both seatings were executed flawlessly and kudos and cash rolled in. On the menu was an appetiser of pan seared foie gras with port, black eyed peas vinaigrette and a Riesling drizzle. Yum ,yum. Now, I knew for sure that the foie gras wasn't going to be my big seller that night and I was quite ok with that. Because I knew that I would get to eat the foie gras over the next few days....indeed, I think Scott came over the next morning and we had some for breakfast. Yum, yum.
When searing the foie gras it becomes your centre of the universe while it is cooking away. Turn your back for a second too long and you have a hot melted pool of duck fat for your effort as said foie gras melts away. You have to focus. And you have to think about the plate composition. The foie is fatty, very fatty. You need something sharp or acidic to cut against that a bit....in comes the bean salad. Which also provides a texture contrast to the velvety smoothness of the the liver. A third flavour profile comes from the wine. A reduced syrup with some added sugar to help with the body of the sauce to perk up your taste buds as you take that first bite. Yum, yum. Bring it all together for a delicious and harmonious dish...which I'm not sharing if you're not worthy. True story - when I was younger I would say things like they don't deserve this kind of food when I was particularly pleased with my creation. I know right....smart ass
So my ode to foie gras brings me to the next morning, sitting over a hot skillet sopping up fatty remnants of the seared foie gras with some excellent french baguette, a glass of wine and wondering why the world didn't blow up or my toaster for that fact. My trifecta of perfection - good food, good wine and good friends. Yum, yum.
Ciao
D
Monday, 4 July 2016
Rudy Tarquin
One may gather from reading some of the posts I have put up here that there is a certain amount of, shall we say, tomfoolery that happens in my world. Oh yes Virginia, we do like to fool around when we can...from quests for the lobster gun and cans of steam to freezing clothing and getting people to eat cardboard...it is about amusing ourselves. Time being a commodity we like to waste ours...when we can.
One summer at the B & B I got an email from Rudy Tarquin. A simple inquiry into room availability, later to be known as the hook. Someone was looking for 4 nights in our suite...you betcha we have space. Off my reply went and I went about my day. In a time before smart phones and synced items, I checked my emails two or three times a day just to stay on top of things while doing the other 118 things that required my attention. Email number two was also quite simple, did we offer a multiple night discount or a seniors discount. Again, quick reply and please feel free to give us a call if we can be of any assistance. Good night Nellie.
The next day the carnage started to unfold. In no particular order since this was ten years or so ago, I received via emails these kind of questions over the next few days. Well worded and thoughtfully structured:
Would there be someone to help with luggage to the third floor?
Would this person be able to help with an oxygen tank as my wife needs this apparatus to breathe at night?
How thick are your walls, my wife has a rather loud phlegm clearing exercise she does every night and we wouldn't want to disturb other guests?
What's the closest synagogue to your establishment?
As each inquiry came in my answers got a little shorter and my response time grew exponentially...I'm now no longer interested in your money or you. I smell trouble if this guest manages to live long enough to darken my door step. And each day I would show Scott these ridiculous emails, sharing a laugh at the sheer lunacy of these Jersey folks. As an aside, when we first opened the B & B I was chatting with a fellow innkeeper and they passed along some observations, one being that if you had an issue at your property it was almost certainly going to be a guest from the Garden State. They weren't wrong.
So on it went for a few days until I guess my sloth like lack of response drove Mr Tarquin to send a vitriolic email condemning me for my anti Semitic tendencies, lack of business acumen and simple stupidity for being in the hospitality business. And as I read through the email with blood boiling it was signed off at the bottom....fuck off see you at 5:00. God damn Scott reading emails over my shoulder trying to keep a straight face as we made fun of the absurdity he had wrote. Well crafted and well done.
I took it to the next level by redirecting Sir Rudy onto a another fellow innkeeper but hitting his buttons even more effectively. He was a sommelier at the time so we wanted to know everything about wine...like could they carry Pennsylvania wines for us. And so on. And while I was content with two and three sentence answers this fellow would write pages of stuff. And when I would pop in on him the next morning running errands he would print things off to show them to me. He killed a small forest to show the world Rudy Tarquin. I kept him on the string for close to two weeks as opposed to the 5 days Scott had me going.
My revenge on Scott was simplistic yet beautiful in it's opportunism. I had a habit of popping in on guests in the dining room to see how their meal was. A bit of small talk and back to the kitchen...Paul Bocuse calls it touching the tables. Call it ego stroking if you want but the guests certainly appreciated it. One evening with only a couple of tables in I stopped at table four to ask how things were. They proceeded to tell me that they were in town to do some genealogical work at the museum. Really? Wow...you know, you should talk to Scott about this. He loves genealogy (he hates it). His mother has gotten into it lately and he has joined her and they have been spending so much time together doing genealogy, not sure how you do genealogy but there you have it. They have bonded so much doing this (no they didn't, he hates genealogy with a passion reserved for RV's and ABBA). Wow...that's awesome they exclaim. I'll mention it to him when I go back to the kitchen. In through the doors, Scott, table four wants to see you buddy. I laughed and I laughed...45 minutes he was stuck with these people...hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha "well played" is all he said when he finally extricated himself. My payback was more instantaneous and direct for my Tarquinism....said innkeeper pantsed(??) me as I was leaving his place. In the middle of the day at the busiest intersection of town - haha All is fair in the world of practical jokes.
So beware the Tarquin, you never know when he or his ilk may reappear.
Ciao
D
One summer at the B & B I got an email from Rudy Tarquin. A simple inquiry into room availability, later to be known as the hook. Someone was looking for 4 nights in our suite...you betcha we have space. Off my reply went and I went about my day. In a time before smart phones and synced items, I checked my emails two or three times a day just to stay on top of things while doing the other 118 things that required my attention. Email number two was also quite simple, did we offer a multiple night discount or a seniors discount. Again, quick reply and please feel free to give us a call if we can be of any assistance. Good night Nellie.
The next day the carnage started to unfold. In no particular order since this was ten years or so ago, I received via emails these kind of questions over the next few days. Well worded and thoughtfully structured:
Would there be someone to help with luggage to the third floor?
Would this person be able to help with an oxygen tank as my wife needs this apparatus to breathe at night?
How thick are your walls, my wife has a rather loud phlegm clearing exercise she does every night and we wouldn't want to disturb other guests?
What's the closest synagogue to your establishment?
As each inquiry came in my answers got a little shorter and my response time grew exponentially...I'm now no longer interested in your money or you. I smell trouble if this guest manages to live long enough to darken my door step. And each day I would show Scott these ridiculous emails, sharing a laugh at the sheer lunacy of these Jersey folks. As an aside, when we first opened the B & B I was chatting with a fellow innkeeper and they passed along some observations, one being that if you had an issue at your property it was almost certainly going to be a guest from the Garden State. They weren't wrong.
So on it went for a few days until I guess my sloth like lack of response drove Mr Tarquin to send a vitriolic email condemning me for my anti Semitic tendencies, lack of business acumen and simple stupidity for being in the hospitality business. And as I read through the email with blood boiling it was signed off at the bottom....fuck off see you at 5:00. God damn Scott reading emails over my shoulder trying to keep a straight face as we made fun of the absurdity he had wrote. Well crafted and well done.
I took it to the next level by redirecting Sir Rudy onto a another fellow innkeeper but hitting his buttons even more effectively. He was a sommelier at the time so we wanted to know everything about wine...like could they carry Pennsylvania wines for us. And so on. And while I was content with two and three sentence answers this fellow would write pages of stuff. And when I would pop in on him the next morning running errands he would print things off to show them to me. He killed a small forest to show the world Rudy Tarquin. I kept him on the string for close to two weeks as opposed to the 5 days Scott had me going.
My revenge on Scott was simplistic yet beautiful in it's opportunism. I had a habit of popping in on guests in the dining room to see how their meal was. A bit of small talk and back to the kitchen...Paul Bocuse calls it touching the tables. Call it ego stroking if you want but the guests certainly appreciated it. One evening with only a couple of tables in I stopped at table four to ask how things were. They proceeded to tell me that they were in town to do some genealogical work at the museum. Really? Wow...you know, you should talk to Scott about this. He loves genealogy (he hates it). His mother has gotten into it lately and he has joined her and they have been spending so much time together doing genealogy, not sure how you do genealogy but there you have it. They have bonded so much doing this (no they didn't, he hates genealogy with a passion reserved for RV's and ABBA). Wow...that's awesome they exclaim. I'll mention it to him when I go back to the kitchen. In through the doors, Scott, table four wants to see you buddy. I laughed and I laughed...45 minutes he was stuck with these people...hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha "well played" is all he said when he finally extricated himself. My payback was more instantaneous and direct for my Tarquinism....said innkeeper pantsed(??) me as I was leaving his place. In the middle of the day at the busiest intersection of town - haha All is fair in the world of practical jokes.
So beware the Tarquin, you never know when he or his ilk may reappear.
Ciao
D
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