LJI, Week 15: Busman's Holiday
"How'd you get three days in a row off?"
"Let's just say it involved the day manager, our Sysco rep, and a gallon of the cheap ass olive oil. And those new gloves we're getting."
I almost pity the new guy for looking like he believes me for a second. Of course, I am also pretty happy that I am still considered a possible player in such shenanigans.
"Seriously, I have racked up so much overtime lately that I have been told that I don't have to go home, but I can't stay here. So I'll catch you in 72 hours. Try to avoid burning the place down."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Stuff. Take over the world. Get a pedicure. Alphabetize my underwear drawer. Maybe read a book. Drink. The usual."
The backdoor closes behind me with a definitve snick and I take a deep breath of the cool air behind the dumpsters. Oh, yes. Three whole days. I am going to sleep in and ignore Foodserviceland and remember who I am when I am not in the kitchen.
Day one, 5:15 am.
Fuck. I overslept, but if I skip my shower and the clothes from last night aren't all that scroungy and...
Oh.
Fuckadoodledoo. Awake now and in full-on panic mode. So much for sleeping in.
Coffee is for closers. Tea is for a long, leisurely day off.
Tea and some cinnamon raisin toast and a perusing of the magazines I never get to read because I am too busy. I flip through the stack next to my chair, dating back months ago.
Food and Wine. Bon Appetit. Food Network Magazine. Saveur. Cooks Illustrated.
Hmmm...makes more sense to make my own granola, and I have enough time. I clip the recipe. And another. And another. All neatly glued to index cards and tucked away in my recipe box. I wonder if some faraway granddaughter will inherit this some day and wonder how I managed to find time to make all this.
Sweet Future Child...the answer is "I didn't. Maybe a few. But tonight I'm eating Spaghettios and drinking gas station merlot. Maybe I'll try a few tomorrow."
Day two, 4:43 am.
Great. I just woke myself up by yelling "I need a runner!" in my sleep.
I'm sure my neighbors think my sex life is much more interesting than it actually is. Unless you account for my incredibly elaborate fantasy life consisting of a host of celebrity chefs and the new guy. Which they don't know about. Unless I'm starting to yell out specific names in my sleep.
Forget I said that last part.
Granola really is a breeze. And it can be made into muffins that I could take in to work. I turn up the Joni Mitchell, cream eggs and butter; sugar and just a splash of vanilla.
Hold up.. What did I tell myself?
You can't leave the kitchen with tickets on the board or muffins in the oven. I set the timer and settle in my favorite chair with a pile of yarn on my lap. Joni finishes her last, sweet notes, and I flip on the television for something to watch while I crochet and wait for muffins.
PBS is evil. Julia Child, Yan Can Cook, The Galloping Gourmet. There goes my afternoon.
Muffins and merlot for supper. I am sensing a theme here.
Day three, 8:42 am
I SLEPT IN!!! I also woke up assuming it was sometime around noon tomorrow because I spied a crack of light sneaking past the blackout drapes in the bedroom. Light stealing into my room can only mean bad things, most of which involve jumping into my whites and running out the door while I contemplate my life choices. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I can grab a bagel while my mother enumerates the ways i've disappointed her in my head.
So, again, instantly awake.
I try to remember the last time I slept this late and it makes my head hurt. Or maybe it was the merlot (damn tannins!). Or possibly the incredibly not work appropriate dream I had about the new guy at work. Or the muffins. Anyway, something is making my head hurt.
I'm blaming the muffins. And maybe the new guy.
Time to break out some coffee. The Internet says it helps with headaches, so it must be true, right?
The light through the kitchen curtains isn't that bad. At least I won't go blind fromit. The edges of the curtains are a little raggedy, but I remember buying that cherry print with my first paycheck and making them when I moved here. The feeling of having a kitchen of my own.
I think I'll wash these curtains carefully, letting the suds creep in to the burns and tiny cuts on my hands. Think about my first kitchen, and the one I will step into tomorrow.
Wash, dried, and ironed, I get out my little sewing box and some rick-rack. I have to return tomorrow, but what the hell? I cue up 'Julie and Julia" and escape into fantasy while I repair my own kitchen.
Just another day in paradise, 5:28 am
"See...I didn't burn the place down."
I smile. I try to look pleased. I also try not to blush.
"Nicely done."
"I hope you enjoyed your days off. Did you have fun?"
I shrug and head straight for the walk-in. "You know...same old, same old. Did we get that shipment I ordered?"
"Yeah. Oh, and the Sysco rep says to say hi."
Yup...same old, same old.
"Let's just say it involved the day manager, our Sysco rep, and a gallon of the cheap ass olive oil. And those new gloves we're getting."
I almost pity the new guy for looking like he believes me for a second. Of course, I am also pretty happy that I am still considered a possible player in such shenanigans.
"Seriously, I have racked up so much overtime lately that I have been told that I don't have to go home, but I can't stay here. So I'll catch you in 72 hours. Try to avoid burning the place down."
"What are you going to do?"
"I don't know. Stuff. Take over the world. Get a pedicure. Alphabetize my underwear drawer. Maybe read a book. Drink. The usual."
The backdoor closes behind me with a definitve snick and I take a deep breath of the cool air behind the dumpsters. Oh, yes. Three whole days. I am going to sleep in and ignore Foodserviceland and remember who I am when I am not in the kitchen.
Day one, 5:15 am.
Fuck. I overslept, but if I skip my shower and the clothes from last night aren't all that scroungy and...
Oh.
Fuckadoodledoo. Awake now and in full-on panic mode. So much for sleeping in.
Coffee is for closers. Tea is for a long, leisurely day off.
Tea and some cinnamon raisin toast and a perusing of the magazines I never get to read because I am too busy. I flip through the stack next to my chair, dating back months ago.
Food and Wine. Bon Appetit. Food Network Magazine. Saveur. Cooks Illustrated.
Hmmm...makes more sense to make my own granola, and I have enough time. I clip the recipe. And another. And another. All neatly glued to index cards and tucked away in my recipe box. I wonder if some faraway granddaughter will inherit this some day and wonder how I managed to find time to make all this.
Sweet Future Child...the answer is "I didn't. Maybe a few. But tonight I'm eating Spaghettios and drinking gas station merlot. Maybe I'll try a few tomorrow."
Day two, 4:43 am.
Great. I just woke myself up by yelling "I need a runner!" in my sleep.
I'm sure my neighbors think my sex life is much more interesting than it actually is. Unless you account for my incredibly elaborate fantasy life consisting of a host of celebrity chefs and the new guy. Which they don't know about. Unless I'm starting to yell out specific names in my sleep.
Forget I said that last part.
Granola really is a breeze. And it can be made into muffins that I could take in to work. I turn up the Joni Mitchell, cream eggs and butter; sugar and just a splash of vanilla.
Hold up.. What did I tell myself?
You can't leave the kitchen with tickets on the board or muffins in the oven. I set the timer and settle in my favorite chair with a pile of yarn on my lap. Joni finishes her last, sweet notes, and I flip on the television for something to watch while I crochet and wait for muffins.
PBS is evil. Julia Child, Yan Can Cook, The Galloping Gourmet. There goes my afternoon.
Muffins and merlot for supper. I am sensing a theme here.
Day three, 8:42 am
I SLEPT IN!!! I also woke up assuming it was sometime around noon tomorrow because I spied a crack of light sneaking past the blackout drapes in the bedroom. Light stealing into my room can only mean bad things, most of which involve jumping into my whites and running out the door while I contemplate my life choices. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, I can grab a bagel while my mother enumerates the ways i've disappointed her in my head.
So, again, instantly awake.
I try to remember the last time I slept this late and it makes my head hurt. Or maybe it was the merlot (damn tannins!). Or possibly the incredibly not work appropriate dream I had about the new guy at work. Or the muffins. Anyway, something is making my head hurt.
I'm blaming the muffins. And maybe the new guy.
Time to break out some coffee. The Internet says it helps with headaches, so it must be true, right?
The light through the kitchen curtains isn't that bad. At least I won't go blind fromit. The edges of the curtains are a little raggedy, but I remember buying that cherry print with my first paycheck and making them when I moved here. The feeling of having a kitchen of my own.
I think I'll wash these curtains carefully, letting the suds creep in to the burns and tiny cuts on my hands. Think about my first kitchen, and the one I will step into tomorrow.
Wash, dried, and ironed, I get out my little sewing box and some rick-rack. I have to return tomorrow, but what the hell? I cue up 'Julie and Julia" and escape into fantasy while I repair my own kitchen.
Just another day in paradise, 5:28 am
"See...I didn't burn the place down."
I smile. I try to look pleased. I also try not to blush.
"Nicely done."
"I hope you enjoyed your days off. Did you have fun?"
I shrug and head straight for the walk-in. "You know...same old, same old. Did we get that shipment I ordered?"
"Yeah. Oh, and the Sysco rep says to say hi."
Yup...same old, same old.