A couple of nights ago I met some friends for dinner at a cute Italian restaurant that we’ve been to often. We sat outside in perfect weather under lemon trees and twinkle lights.
The day at work was rough and busy and I was thrilled to be done and away from the computer.
When we were seated we commented that the place was packed. Lots of big tables and parties going on. Good for them. Back to life.
I was with some dear friends, one of whom, Gail, is a teacher in a hard district a few towns away. She’s a spit fire of energy and cracked us up all night with stories from her classes.
It turned out that the place was so busy it took us almost 3 hours to get through our dinner. Our waiter hurriedly came to say hi, gave us the specials and that was it for 15 min. Poof. Gone. When he came back we ordered a salad to share as an appetizer, and he quickly vanished again. We had to flag him down to get silverware. We had to remind him after our salads that he never took our entree order. He never once refilled our water. He dropped a bread basket but no butter or oil.
I was less than pleased. You know I like my bread.
The company was fantastic and we were having a wonderful time. But ofcourse I was also seething quietly about the service.
To be fair we weren’t the only table ignored. The tables around us had the same issues. And to also be fair, we watched the waiter hustle and try to cover all the tables he was serving.
But ofcourse I was still pissy. I wanted my fork. I wanted a napkin. I wanted my butter. Waaaaaa, cried the baby.
After we finally got our meal, which was delicious, and the restaurant began clearing out a bit, he finally came over to check on us. He also acknowledged how slow everything had been and thanked us for our patience.
I don’t know if I would have said something, but I know I would have been quiet and had a puss face on. It’s something I’m working on.
My puss face. Or as my husband says,” THE face”. You’ve probably only seen my smile face. My happy face. My laughing face. Which is the one I have on for the majority of the time. But those that love me have seen the other one.
Before any of that could happen, Gail looked him straight in the eye and said,” wow you are really busy tonight. You need help out here.” As she said it, I watched his shoulders drop and a soft smile drape his face. “Thank you for saying that” he said. He went on to explain that they are completely swamped and can’t find people to work. That was his 7th day of working both shifts.
Like a good teacher, Gail steered us (me) into the right behavior. I sat there thankful that her kindness and humanness made up for my puss face.
I took a deep breath and joined in on chatting with him. I was embarrassed that I couldn’t see what she saw. A person just doing the best they can. Someone hustling to cover a room too big for one person to cover.
I’m sharing this to keep me accountable. Sharing this to say it’s ok to be wrong and course correct. But I’m really sharing this so we can have a Gail appreciation moment today.
Let’s all be like Gail today.
Have a good day everyone and put your puss faces away.
I don’t do deprivation. I also don’t go on big diets. I’ve never done Keto or Paleo or anything like that. In high school I did Slimfast. Once. But I blame Oprah. She rolled out that wheel of fat and I couldn’t resist. For you young kids out there that don’t know what I’m talking about – YouTube it.
I know what you’re thinking. It’s January. Here comes the obligatory post about resolutions and diets. But that’s not what this is.
This post is about habits. I’ve formed some bad habits. Nothing criminal or overly damaging, but bad none the less. There were 3 things that ramped up for me these last few months. Facebook(FB), booze and going out to eat.
3 things that are all innocuous on the surface but I was taking to new heights.
Booze… I don’t really need to explain right? Thanksgiving to Christmas was full of “cheer”. And between Christmas and New Year’s? Let’s just say I was “cheerful” from lunch to dinner to bed *hiccup*.
Facebook… oh I love social media. I’ve told you that already. But when social media is more entertaining that being actually social. Time for a pause. A respite. Btw I’m not giving up Instagram. Maybe in 2021.
Eating out… I love eating out! It’s the best. Not just the no cooking part, but the whole experience. Picking where to go, what to order, what to drink, etc. I love it all. It was/is one of my favorite hobbies. When we travel the first thing I do is find places to eat. But lately, the fun is slipping away. We’ve eaten everywhere in town. We’ve eaten everywhere in surrounding towns. We’re locals at multiple places. We don’t even need to look at most menus. It’s too much. We need a break. I’m not saying I’m cooking all the time – there’s no shame in the DoorDash game- but enough with the restaurants.
That’s it. Just three small changes for January. Not forever. Just 31 days to develop some new habits. A palate cleanser. Nothing more.
This isn’t for weight loss (you’ll never take my carbs from me!)and I have zero desire to do some sort of self evolution. It’s not that dramatic. I just want to see if I can re-adjust my current normal. Just tilting the ship upright a bit.
My blogs post automatically to my FB, in case you’re wondering if I’m cheating already. I’m not, and I’ve deleted the app from my phone and computer. I’ll miss seeing all the birthdays and photos, but I’ll be back Feb 1…unless I fold like a cheap suit. Which is fine too. I like cheap suits.
Here’s an unfiltered picture of where we’ve been for a couple of days. Peaceful. Beautiful. Wide open beaches with no fighting for the best view…everyone gets a good view. We try and come to this little piece of heaven every year. It’s a fancy place but we come all unfancy. We stay with family. We avoid all the crazy crowded restaurants. We try to vacation like a local.
Except we’re not local. We know it. They know it.
A couple of years ago, my husband’s godmother took us to the most delicious little pizzeria in town. It was so unassuming and relaxed – but the food was no joke. The lines out the door proved it.
We began going every time we visited. It was always a sure thing.
You sit. You order a $20 dollar bottle of wine. If you’re my husband you order the seafood fra diavolo, and If you’re me, you get linguini with garlic and oil… because cheese is no longer my friend. And without fail… the food is good. Really good.
Is it slow? Sure. Is it the best service? No. It’s a pizzeria, we get it. I’m not looking for a concierge level experience. I’m looking for bare bones. I’m looking for some water. I’m looking to get the stuff we ordered getting to us. Maybe a quick, brief check-in to see if we need anything. Basic.
Tonight we got none of it. Nothing.
Let me back up.
Admittedly I’m a tough critic of restaurants – food and service. It’s my job. It’s what I worry about all the time. Service. Food. Experience. My husband is the opposite. By the burly looks of him you’d think he’d be the harder judge. But he’s a softie. His mom waitressed to make ends meet when he and his sister were little. He heard all the stories of crabby customers. It’s a hard job. Thankless. Under appreciated. He’s very very sensitive to that.
His idea of a tip for bad service is 18%. It’s his ultimate “gotcha”. If that man leaves you less than 20% you basically didn’t serve him at all. I’ve seen him overtip at every level. I’ve seen him go back to a restaurant where someone else has paid for our meal just to confirm the tip was good. He’s nuts! In a good way. I am mostly in agreement with this. Except when it’s bad service.
We’ve lived with this dichotomy for our entire relationship. I know he can’t take it if I ask the person waiting on us for more than 2 things,” excuse me, can I get some salt?”, “can we get some water?”. That’s it. That’s all I get. And I’m fine with that. Do I mentally make note of all the things that could have gone better? Ofcourse! Do I say anything? Almost never. Like practically never. Between my husband and my kids, the goal is always the same. Don’t make trouble. Just let it go. And I usually do. But not tonight.
Tonight was the worst service we’ve ever had. Worse than the time our waiter left his shift and never told anyone he still had a table. Worse than the time the woman waiting on us was having a full blown fight with the kitchen staff. This was… epic bad. I’m not going to go into detail. You can guess. I’m sure it’s happened to you too.
To clarify how bad it was, when I said to my husband at the end of our dinner,” wow, she’s getting zero tip. None.” I waited to hear what I thought he’d say, which is,”no freaking way”, instead he said,”yep”. I couldn’t believe it. No talk about how harsh I am. No talk about her having a bad day. Nothing. Just full agreement. She was worse than I thought.
So. For the very first time since I’ve known him – about 25 years – we left no tip. By the way, even though this was a very casual pizzeria type place, our bill was over a $100. That’s how this town rolls. And guess what? The food was worth every penny.
Even now, hours later, we are both guilt ridden. Justifying to ourselves why we left her no tip. Trying to validate our actions so we can sleep tonight. It’s no bueno.
We weren’t rude. We weren’t mean. But it still feels rotten. Have you ever done this? Please lie and tell me you have. Going to bed now. Full of regret, guilt and antacids.
Most Sunday mornings start the same way for me. If we don’t have anywhere to go I wake up to the sounds of CBS Sunday Morning. It’s usually my husband to my left and Charles Osgood and his bow tie to my right. Cozy.
It’s the perfect show. A little smart. A little silly. Lots of pictures. Perfect. I don’t remember a Sunday without it (or without 60 minutes for that matter).
This morning’s episode featured a Yale psychologist named Paul Bloom talking about a human’s need for pleasure. Pleasure through all sorts of things. At the end of that segment they talked about people who love spicy foods. So spicy that the experience borders on pain. This need to push pleasure onto the realm of mild pain is called “benign masochism”.
I perked right up. My husband perked right up. You see, he’s been married to a benign masochist for a long time, and now we finally have a name to my disease. I love…no adore…no need super spicy food. If there’s a mild sweat developing while I have my penne arrabiata – awesome. If the name of the food has the word Habanero in it – it’s for me! Do you know how many times my daughter has said,” why? Mom, why?” This is why!
I blame my upbringing. I blame my Indian heritage. I blame….how delicious everything spicy really is.
My family and friends have been so supportive – they’ve always hidden their horror.
They don’t laugh when I order Chinese food (vegetable fried rice, no eggs, no mushrooms, extra spicy).
They didn’t laugh when I, at 6 months pregnant with my son, asked the cafeteria worker in our conservative financial firm to remove the jalapeno decorations during a Mexican themed lunch so I could actually eat them. I had to.
They love me so much that when we go out for lunch or dinner or even breakfast, they never forget to ask for the crushed red pepper or hot sauce.
We live about 40 minutes from the beach. More specifically, the Jersey Shore. You know, the place that gave birth to GTL, Snooki, and the Situation. But it’s also the place that gave us big old boardwalk slices of pizza, funnel cake, arcade games and oh yeah, the beach.
Because it was sunny. Because it was a perfect 65 degrees. Because I needed to extract myself away from the TV. We headed to the beach.
This was also the place hit hard by Hurricane Sandy – and although they were still rebuilding parts of the boardwalk – doors were open.
Here’s my babies playing an overpriced game that can’t possibly be worth the crappy stuffed toy that they will eventually win. Everything is back to normal.
Today’s post was going to be a mushy, gushy Valentine cooking post. A step by step of me making my husband’s all time favorite pasta – fra diavolo. Shrimp, bay scallops and squid. I was going to talk about my favorite shortcut. Rao’s tomato sauce. It’s $9 a jar – and yes, making real sauce is easy and it costs $2 – what’s your point? I was going to tell you not to be scared of shortcuts, or squid. That it’s no biggie. I’ve done it before. It cooks in a couple of seconds and people are impressed. And I had pictures…tons of freaking pictures. I was going to show you how brave I am. Buying, cleaning, chopping squid like it was my business. I’ve done it before. No big thaang. But then something happened. (if you are my husband, for the love of god, stop reading this).
As I cleaned the squid…I found….gulp….a little baby fish inside!!
Hold me.
After I stared at it for a few minutes and the nausea had worn off, I washed my hands and did what all smart people faced with oddities do – I YouTubed it, and googled it, and Wiki’d it, and Web MD’d it (just in case). The people of the internet told me it’s normal. Happens all the time. Feed it to my cat, etc. But even now, hours later, I shiver when I think of it. Maybe the squid had a last meal and didn’t have time to finish, maybe it was the thing they used to lure the squid. Alls I know is, it ended up in my kitchen.
I’ve been changed people. Some sort of gross seafood cherry has been popped. I had to come to terms with it quickly. My kids or my hubby could not/should not ever see this. You don’t understand. My husband, I love him, but he’s no adventurous foodie. He gets really grossed out really quickly. And I couldn’t let my kids see it – the horror the horror!
So like every good mother and wife, I got rid of the evidence and pretended all was good.
Now, safe in my bed, I can finally come to terms with it.
Here’s what I went through folks. Happy f’ing Valentine’s day…
I’ll start with the harmless ones first. Prepare yourselves. Here’s the shrimp/sauce/squid. I forgot to take pictures of the scallops because – did I mention – I found food inside the food!! It’s like a bad M.Night Shyamalan plot twist. Back to my sordid story.
Please note that my cutting board is…well..it’s all cut-up. These are not just props people. This stuff gets used!
Here’s the fresh squid. Yes, it looks slimy but there’s no smell and it handles easily. It also easily cuts into the calamari ringlets.
And then, as I clean it. I notice this little guy or gal or it. Do you want to hurl like me?
I want my mommy.
Reason number 8,222,329 to be a vegetarian: I’ve never found a carrot in the middle of my bagel. Or an almond in my banana. I’ll stop now.
I say this in my house once or 12 times a week. You don’t like dinner? You’ll be fine. Lunch isn’t up your ally? No worries, stick around for a few hours and another meal will appear. Why? Because we live in the first world, because food is over abundant and available 24/7 to us, and mostly because we’re lucky as shit – if you don’t like your food, get over it.
This past week there was a lot of buzz around a New York Times food review that tore apart a TV Chef owned restaurant in NYC. The entire article was written in questions. At first, I loved the article. I laughed. I thought it was clever and sarcastic and biting. And then I reread it a few days ago because it’s been on my mind. I was wrong. I don’t like the article at all. I know it’s a review, I get that. And I’m all for honesty in journalism. But this wasn’t that. This was written by a man-boy who basically had a hissy fit because he didn’t like the food. He scorched the concept, the people, the food, the location – everything. It was an all out teenage tantrum wrapped in sardonic writing, and he seemed very happy with himself.
I’m not sure why this is bothering me and I’ve never been to the place that was reviewed. I believe it wasn’t/isn’t great. And I’m sure there were truths to what the writer said in the article. But please, calm down dude, it’s not your last meal.
Right now, at this minute, we are supposed to be tucked away in Vermont. But instead we’re home, having cut our trip short. Doesn’t everyone drive 6 1/2 hours each way for a day and a half? I’m not bitter. It was a great little visit full of food and family and fun.
The East Coast of the country is a flutter – the perfect storm, a hybrid Frankenstorm is on its way! Save yourselves!
I’m not making light of it. I hope everyone is safe and sound.
So we headed home and bought a ton of crap and some booze to get us through. Isn’t that really what storm preparedness is all about?
Here’s some quick shots of our weekend.
All good times start with my munchkins -here they are on the farm. We missed the foliage by about 2 weeks – typical.
So during that short time, we went on a cheese tasting and a maple syrup tasting. We were busy. I liked the lightest and darkest versions of the syrup. All or nothing for me baby.
Cheese wise I’m not picky – except for anything “smoked” which is the devil.
And because I’m making a conscious effort to “stay in the picture” (read Allison Tate’s post on The Huffington Post called,”The Mom Stays in the Picture”). Here’s me with my husband’s gorgeous cousin. She’s the hot blond on the right. That’s her hubby getting personal with a horse on the farm.
We went to Quechee Gorge which was really cool and funky. It also reminded me of what a chicken shit I am about heights, large falls, falling to my death, etc.
Here’s my girl and my sister-in-law – this is one of 40 photos I took titled “Gorge Glam”. What?
As I posted this I noticed that my girl is a wee bit taller than her god mother! Then I cried about how fast time goes by and about how my sister-in-law was just holding her swaddled up in a rocking chair. Yesterday. Anyway. I digress.
Everyone’s got some sort of sneezy, snorty, itchy-eyed allergy ridden cold
School’s in full swing, 2 back-to-school nights down, reading logs are already being ignored. Back to normal.
My blogging hasn’t gotten enough love from me, cause I’m tired! Sorry. No more excuses. Back to the everyday blog – starting tomorrow.
Did I tell you that I’m leaving for Paris at the end of the week. The trip of my dreams. A present from my man for my 40th. Did I also tell you that I realized my passport was expired during a random conversation in bed the other night. It’s been fun. The only thing that is sustaining me is traveling to a place where my completely black wardrobe will fit right in. Wine. Cheese. Bread. Black clothes. I may never come back.
Kim Kardashian is always eating on “Keeping Up With The Kardashians”.
Boardwalk Empire starts tonight. I’m excited until I remember that Jimmy was killed off. What’s really left for me?
Am I the only one that gets bit by bugs the nano second I step outside? I’ve been using more Calamine Lotion than moisturizer.
I have 22 almost rotten bananas in my freezer. I see my husband roll his eyes every time he opens the freezer. How many more bananas will it take to drive him bananas? Which one will be the banana that broke his back? Is that a banana in your freezer or are you just nuts?
I saw the woman who does my pedicures in a shoe store – it was an awkward encounter, I don’t know why.
Tomorrow’s blog will be full of humor, intelligence and brilliance! Just kiddin’ – it’ll be more of this shit.
I’m a vegetarian. I’ve always been one. My parents are both veggies too. My sister ventured to the dark side during her teen years, but we got her back eventually. It’s really no big deal. I’m well fed – over nourished actually. I’m pretty easy going about the whole thing. My kids both eat meat and fish and fowl – I’ve already explained their Irish/Ukrainian background which demands consumption of many different types of sausage. I have no problem cooking for all different folks, save the Vegans who I think are aliens (really, no cheese or yogurt, ever? A life without dairy? Madness. ) I’m off track, I’ve digressed … or as one my good friends would say, “the cheese is falling off the cracker.” See why I love her?
It’s pretty easy to be veg these days, there are plenty of choices – I can even get a Big Mac without the Mac. I’m just sayin’ it’s no big deal. The only thing that still freaks me out is when animal and non-animal are served together on the same plate, or are handled by the same utensil, or worse, cooked in the same pan! Then I’m a little grossed out (in a non-judgmental way). When I first learned what the word Kosher meant – I was thrilled. All my needs wrapped up in a bow. Yes, I know it means so much more – and it’s not exactly what I’m talking about – but it’s close enough. Would I love my food to be cooked in an entirely separate kitchen, oh yeah. Will it happen – no. But when I say the word Kosher… it explains all my separate but equal needs.
So this weekend we went to see my husband’s cousin and his ridiculously gorgeous family. We met at a great hibachi place near their town. First I was distracted by the light and love that are these beauties….
Those lashes…that little nose and mouth. Come on.
My biological clock is literally winding itself up again as I hold her.
Have you ever??
Her very handsome, very funny older brother.
In this scene the hibachi madness had just started…
Below…. She’s thinking what I’m thinking,” Where’s the veggie hibachi grill?”
Where was I? Sorry. Now this was not my first hibachi experience. We go all the time. I knew when the gal came over to explain the menu that all foods would be living in sin together on the grill in front of us. I also knew that the dude cooking would be using one knife for it all (and telling bad jokes). So he went at it – cutting zucchini, cutting shrimp, cutting steak, cutting my desire to ever go to Japan…not really…ok …yes.
Look at all that inter-food group mingling going on.
I realize I’m not normal. I’m not doing this for religion or animal rights – I just missed the boat on eating any other way. I blame my mother.
But this post is not a complaint – it’s an explanation. No other food eating experience can ever illustrate my issues more than hibachi.
That said – what do I get at hibachi every time we go? SUSHI!
Ofcourse I’m sure the sushi guy uses the same knife too – but a girl’s gotta eat right?
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