Sunday, November 21, 2010

Flash in the pan.

The cat is awake. I am awake (not because of the cat). Ice cold peppermint tea, long forgotten and suddenly remembered while sitting waist high in soft blankets at the work table. There is shit piled all around the green cutting mat. A tiger mask looking up at the ceiling, a paint covered Nalgene water bottle, a gifted clay mug from Aunty Daryl, a letter writing box, a haggard Lady Longbody. Today I threw a doll (Gemma) into the rug wash. Not a good idea. Shit. She came out all crazy, but soft. I have a lot of sewing to do.

Oh. Late nights on air. Late Nights on Air. Rebecca, you should read that book. I am up, thinking about train travel and travelling and travails and travailler. Reading on trains and eating raisins out of an open palm. An upcoming trip to Toronto is in the wings. A sibling trip of sorts, seeing as there hasn't been a single one since 2004. Last night Erin and I booked our separate ways to the meeting spot at the same time, long after bedtime, a span of provinces lying horizontally between us. A train ride is in order! I am looking forward to it already.

I came across a year of the Tiger mask today while on an adventure with JJ. We ate clementines in a weird park and cut through alleys to pinch out the cold. Dry pavement Sunday morning walking, after a Bob Dylan egg breakfast.

No work yesterday, for those curious. I did stand beside the kitchen's pass for a good hour, just watching and laughing at the two chefs on the line--main guy Benoit and his right hand toast bitch Simon--hoot and holler at each other as hollandaise was guided over the fresh poaches on toasted bisquits. Careful plating by Simon. I watched that straight cookin' (like straight shootin') and looked on as melted butter circled the hot pans for each order. Bacon, ham, sausage. Bleu, Swiss, Cheddar. I watched and longed for the long kitchen back at the Black Sheep. Madhavi's face as she sailed in and out of my view every few moments. Her laughter in the front of house blocking out the sobs coming from the grill. Those were good days then.

And more are coming. This kitchen that I stood near yesterday was also set up by a person who cooks. Often. It is small, but crazily functional. Everything in its place type place. It gave me a new understanding of how space can be so minimal, but also so highly utilized if well planned. Things were flying, fancy spent shell-work, dropped tongs flipped up like magic and whipped like a dart into their personal wash pit along the wall between Simon's plating/toast station and Benoit's grill/boil/bake station. A nice kitchen dance to watch, those to boys. The prep girl, also named Megan (whose job I am hoping to steal) was a bit of a drag. I could have shaken her for the indifference with which she peeled hot bacon from the pan. Agggh! No, she was nice. But damn! I would really have loved to get in there yesterday. Patience. Dirty rags and slopping bleach water. Subway tile in white behind a wall of ominous stainless steal kitchen appliances. Slim room, but smart. Who knows what will come about my little Go See, but it gave me hope in a way that I haven't felt in many moons.

Toast bitch would suit me fine.


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