Recipe for Success

It happened. I did it. And that could very well be the end of this entry. Kidding!

I don't cook. I'm not saying that in a snobby "above it all," way. I don't cook. In my childhood my father did all of the cooking. My mom made lasagna and questionable choices. That's about it. Okay and salad.

My dad made Mac and Cheese, full Thanksgiving Dinner, ham and potatoes, potato soup, split pea soup, chili, spaghetti, manicotti, stew, sweet and sour chicken, tacos, sloppy joes, pork chops, fried chicken and so on and so forth. 

When I was 16 my first friend at a new high school taught me how to get boys to make you a girlfriend, and how to scramble eggs. My sister taught me when I was 17 or 18 how to make french toast and grilled cheese. When I tried to make grilled cheese for my dad, he said I was using too much butter and doing it wrong. I no longer make grilled cheese but occasionally bust out some french toast.

I make epic sandwiches and delicious salad combos. I make a lot of plans. I burn rice, I rush things and get frustrated, and I successfully make banana bread that I am the only one that likes, although my daughter will have some on occasion.

I've tried crock pot recipes and nine times out of ten they come out "okay." Later they will be found out to have "needed more or less of x,y,z" or not having all the ingredients, being super annoyed and saying "whatever." My husband has made fun of Pinterest recipes since their very evolution. Last night was my first success.

I'm going to blame my weird control whims. I'm going to say that after being engulfed in all avenues of anxiety, that I thought...how can I harness this for good? I've been struggling with feeling negative and resentful as of late. I've been feeling as though I'm reaching out to certain people and getting little to no response which leaves me feeling impotent and unimportant. Something as simple as a Pinterest recipe did more than I thought.

My husband cooks everything. He is a very wonderful chef and I abuse that often. In that way I am beyond spoiled. I also, however, appreciate ANY meal made for me, even if it's not my favorite, because I am well aware that cooking is a time consuming craft.

When I found this recipe, the "hardest" task on it was, "brown the meat." My husband actually taught me to do that once. I could totally pull it off. Now for time frame and ingredients. Shout out to Wal-Mart pick up order. I got all the ingredients we didn't have, perfectly matched to what we needed, and picked them up after I got the kiddo, with no argument.

With even further recipe review, I realized that all I needed to do what cook the meat and open the cans. My daughter could do everything else without me. What would we be making? Taco soup. Why? Earlier this week I had asked my husband to make tacos and he defrosted some ground beef. Life happened and he had a particularly bad day and it didn't happen. To alleviate "extra" requests and expectations, I said just don't worry about it, we have plenty of other meal options. 

My husband's late night go to is either soup, or some form of nacho. I figured this could be the best of both worlds. This was a way I came up with that was intended to say "I appreciate you, I know you're having an off week, so here is something nice for you." I just really hoped I couldn't somehow mess it up.

I multi-tasked like a bad ass. While browning said meat my daughter did her evening reading for me. Instead of some huge homework fight, even when we were at odds, with me concentrating on not burning and fucking up the food, and her spelling out words she was stuck on, we did good. And when she finished reading, I was ready for her to do the ingredient dump. 

We both rocked it, but she did so incredibly well just listening and stirring and understanding what we were doing for her dad. Too bad she'd never eat it, but she sure was excited to make it. It felt so good to "meal plan." It felt good to put something together thinking it would probably come out good. I set my alarm for 1AM to go turn it off in case the hubby would be later than that. No sooner did I snap that crock pot to "off" and crawl back into bed did I hear him come home, ready to enjoy his super late dinner.

He actually said it was good and he added some cheese and dipped his chips in it. My daughter said she'd remembered the secret ingredient, "Love," when she was making it.

It's weird how something so simple as a Pinterest recipe gone right, and a really easy thing to put together, somehow has given me a spring in my step for Friday like what else can I accomplish!?

When you feel ignored by people you're vying for attention from, you can wilt like a flower honestly. Sure, they are busy and working hard, but sometimes you just want some validation or acknowledgement. We're all human after all. Somehow this recipe for success actually gave me the water I needed to bloom and not wilt. This recipe's success gave me the confidence that with a little attention to detail, planning and confidence, I'm more capable than I think. Perhaps it also left me with feeling like I don't necessarily need to seek out that approval but just keep putting out good vibes, good intentions and good words and things will be returned as they need to be.

I don't think one successful crock pot experience makes me a cook. I don't feel like now I can make anything but rather I have the confidence to try other simple things. I won't pretend those anxious feelings are remotely gone but maybe I'm finding amended coping mechanisms for better handling of them. 

I've had to breathe deeply a lot this week. I've had to be patient in ways that take me out of my comfort zone and have been messing with my emotions and mentality. This concentrated effort to make some taco soup was quite the random accomplishment but I intend to keep it close as a reminder for my capabilities, creativity and an affirmation to self care and some self love. What a way to kick off the weekend!

Life In Proximity To The Hospitality Industry

About a decade ago, I left my life of being a nanny and a full time student in Eugene, Oregon to come to the "beautiful, lawless swamp" that is Florida. My first job was a cashier in a medical apparel store or "Scrub Store" as we called it in the University Community Hospital right by USF main campus.

My husband, however, has always been a restaurant man and a self-taught cook, which is one of the reasons I married him, because I cannot cook, like at all. I can bake a few things but outside of Mac and Cheese, sandwiches and salads, nope.

The hubby got a job at like 19 or 20 maybe at "Pizza Pete's" Italian Kitchen in Eugene and worked his way up from the dish pit and delivery to learning the ropes in the kitchen. From there it was to the new, soon to be hot spot, "El Vaquero," which was Eugene's premier Tapas Bar, and also had one of America's top 5 bartenders, Jeffrey Morgenthaler, as the man behind the cocktails. Morgenthaler and his second in command, Scott Butler, took my hubby under their wing from time to time to show him all about craft cocktails and what real bartenders looked like.

At El Vaquero my husband went from prep to pastry chef and a little bit in between. When the owners saw that he could actually thrive in the kitchen, the sent him across town to his pride and joy, Asado. Asado was a smaller, but also intimate Mexican-type kitchen with tapas and cocktails, and it was there he found his long time friend, Jarred, who was a groomsman at our wedding. He learned how to run a kitchen and even a restaurant during his time there.

When Asado was sold, he moved onto The Old Pad, which was strictly "bar food" and then lastly to the Villard Street Pub near campus. He has learned every single cuisine from scratch, from Italian to Mexican, to Sushi to Coastal Cuisine and lastly, French food. In Florida he got a job at a Sushi place, a Mexican Grille, then a local bar, he helped open a new Coastal Kitchen in Westchase and designed the menu, then for the same company put together craft cocktails and American gastro-pub fare at another new restaurant that holds two locations to this day and will remain nameless. From there he did some time at a local artisan sandwich place, finally landing a high-end French fine dining establishment close to home. He's never gone to culinary school and is extremely talented in my humble opinion.

However, living the life of the wife of a chef, is anything but easy. I had my foray in the food biz about 9 and a half years ago too. We once worked at the same restaurant together, he was in the kitchen and I was front of the house. I had the personality and the energy for it, but I got burned and burned out quickly in every sense of the words. The picture above is from my favorite restaurant life movie "Waiting," which I used to watch weekly to handle the stress of that whole atmosphere.

I was good at my job too, but I had no desire to be a manager and the tipping system where I was, left a lot to be desired. I met some amazing people though, and learned a lot. My biggest takeaway is pictured below, please excuse the swear but unfortunately it is completely true:

While I am incredibly proud of my husband and ever-impressed by his culinary evolution, no one tells you that life in restaurant industry is rough as you enter the family phases. And I say this for me personally, not even just for the man working the stove! We had once talked about running a restaurant together someday, and even once had the opportunity to do so outside of Florida, but as my husband simply said, "Then you would really never see me."

When I say I never see my husband let's break it down for all you non-believers. After half a decade of struggling as parents and job-jumping and life hurdles, I have found my "forever job," that is unless they fire me. It is an 8-5, lunch at noon office type thing. It is reliable with all the benefits that work best for family life. The kid is in school and after care full tilt. My daughter and I are off full weekends and I'm home every single evening.

Hubby is not quite on the same schedule although he did score Saturdays as a routine day off, which is a restaurant life miracle, but regardless, we don't have much time together. In a realistic scope, we have Saturday from about 8:30am to 10pm at night, give or take bed times, so what is that 13ish hours? And we have Sunday mornings from say 7:30am to 1:30pm, but throw in church drumming, commuting and errands, maybe separate cars, we can call that a good 4 hours of seeing each other? And he is off all day Monday and I get home at 6pm and am always in bed by 9pm weekdays so, let's call that 3 hours? So doing the math; 13 + 4 + 3 is...20 hours a week.

I have the opportunity to see my husband for a total of 20 hours a week, at best. That is less than a full day out of 7 days each week. You may think I'm exaggerating or being dramatic, and I'd like to say I am but add in errands, or plans with other people on the nights I have back up and it's easily less than 20 hours a week. It's not an simple thing.

For the longest time, this born of was necessity. When you literally cannot afford childcare or daycare or anything like that but still can't just stay home full time, you work opposite shifts, not matter how crappy and painful. You promise yourself it will get easier as the kiddo gets older and it does in SOME ways, but the more things change, the more things stay the same.

My husband's talents are completely underrated by many; I think my dad and sisters may be his biggest fans. He usually gets irritated because of all the favorite things of his I love for him to make, all I ever want is Tacos and Pizza, which he finds unimpressive. They are so damn good though!

He's always made me insanely proud because he has brought himself up from the dish pit to a sous chef, but that's not to say the life in proximity to the hospitality industry doesn't have its sacrifices and challenges, because it very much does.

The wives that send their men to the army, or that have husbands that constantly travel for business, or their hubby runs a hotel or bar? Those are the women in my tribe who can commiserate, if not trump my whining over wine-ing. It sucks sometimes, but unfortunately I've gotten used to it.

In a perfect world we'd have family meals every evening, we'd have routine nights out and all the sporting events and extra curricular activities would rule our nights and weekends, but we are far from being able to do that. We cram a lot into Saturdays. We juggle a lot on Sunday mornings more often than not, and we just keep on keeping on.

It's hard for a lot of people to understand and sometimes I wonder if we would even know how to be around each other more, if it ever happened. Even on vacations it's like divide and conquer and we have to re-learn how to be around each other for that many hours in row. 

I'm extremely grateful to have a man who works insanely long, 12-14 hour shifts on his feet creating delicious food and still manages to cook for me, while providing for the family. Although, I will say,  life in the hospitality business is not for the faint of heart. There are a million times I wish he could have come home early from a shift to help with the sick kid, the sick dog or a sick me, but alas we continued.

I think life is hard enough as it is, and as we grow older we just look for ways to shape things to ease the rough exteriors and make everything more palatable. I very much have to take one day at a time. I've learned that planning in advance with his career is super difficult. I've learned how to operate around the Kitchen chaos. I've learned that most of kitchen life is fluid and if you can't stand the heat, you gotta get out of the kitchen, all puns intended. 

Maybe some day schedules will align and be different but for now, we stay grateful for the food on the table, the roof over our heads and health we have to work the hours we do, especially for him. As I live this life in proximity to the Hospitality Industry I can say I've learned so much and appreciate all the lessons...and the food, but certainly wouldn't mind seeing the man behind the food more often. A girl can dream! Cheers!

The Morning Rush...10 Minutes Late or Bust!

The movie Bad Moms is worth a watch at some point, if it's not already in your favorites list, for many reasons in fact, but it opens with a line that goes something like "I had kids and I've been late every day ever since." This is factual. 

I used to be chronically early to everything. I was that person who, if you're not early you're not on time because just arriving on time is too close to too late! And then when you have a child, it takes longer to do anything and everything. Ever. Not to mention you're never the creator of your own schedule, that baby/toddler/kid is.

Now, I can be mostly on time for work (I'm usually in the parking garage by 8...in the office by 8:05) and if I need to be anywhere without my husband or child, I am usually about 10 minutes late unless it's an appointment, like for a doctor or dentist, you know anything PAID for. Generally, however, I am late. 

It's not a laziness thing, well not always, and it's not a procrastination thing, well not always. I like to think it's just another badge on motherhood sash. If any of you moms out there are always on time, please teach me your ways!

Every morning I think I give myself the perfect amount of time to get ready and then I get distracted or forget that I already forgot something or everything and it just snowballs. When my daughter blissfully sleeps through my getting-ready-for-work time, I'm fine, but when she wants to come talk to me when I'm trying to sip my coffee or demands breakfast early or wants help picking out clothes or, "I can't reach this," or "Mom, mom, mom, mom!," that's when it all goes awry. And fast.

Things are much better now than when she was really little, but I can never seem to give us enough time for the "getting from the house into the car," routine. They can NEVER find their shoes or they need to bring a toy or they want a snack or they need 500 other things. You ask them to pee 6 times and you'll still end up stopping more often than not. Then getting into the car seat is ridiculous; it always takes much longer than it rightfully should. 

My husband somehow manages to never get in the car at the same time as we do; we always get in the car and wait for him because I usually drive. Then my daughter starts whining about, "Why is daddy taking so long! He's taking forever! When are we leaving?" It's a fun game.

With no one in my way, I CAN be on time but as a mom, I'm not so sure "No one in your way" actually exists. It might be like Narnia, a place only accessible through some kind of secret and magic entrance.

I honestly barely put much effort into my appearance anymore. I once left the house with only one eye having mascara on it and with jelly on the side of my shirt from a morning hug. I ALMOST left the house, more than once, with different flip flops, and no it wasn't a trend setting type thing. I don't wear expensive make-up nor do I have some crazy routine for skin care or maintenance. My goal is to look "somewhat put together." So "getting ready," is rarely a long process, but the many interruptions elongate everything.

Children always have something they need to tell you, but it doesn't seem to be completely necessary to tell you this thing until you're already doing all the other things. Kids timing is impeccable. But I will take ownership, I'm often late because I also try to do TOO MUCH in not enough time.

For most people this results in less than awesome results, but for me, it somehow makes me work harder in some self-competition. Oh did you not realize from all aforementioned Friends references that I'm mostly Monica? Yes. And I love cleaning and arranging as a way to physically display my ability to control variables in my chaotic world.

These are all my contributing lateness factors that I suspect most of us have in common and again, anyone who is on time, please teach me how to be an adult in this capacity. 

Maybe I'll be more timely one day, but much like being tired, I think being late is just who I am now. It's all intricately connected into my entire world of mothering. We all have our strengths, being timely is not mine. I can make a mean salad though, but if I invite you for dinner, it won't be ready exactly on time so maybe have a snack first...

Crock Pot Contentment

I was able to cook something in the crock pot that was edible and this is why that's a big deal.

I told you the blog was simmering as was my soup! Now to preface: I don't cook. When I say that, I don't mean it in some flippant way. I actually do not cook. I can make an epic sandwich and salad, true, but outside of anything that comes with 3-step instructions in a box, I have mastered very few dishes during my time on earth. I am the person that burns rice, and watches that Friends episode where Rachel talks about following the recipe, "If it says boil 2 cups of salt, you just boil 2 cups of salt!," and I'm too  afraid to ask if that is a real thing or funny because it is so not. 

I grew up with both parents until I was about 12. My dad was domestic. My mom was and is not. My mom shopped and made sure we appeared to rank in some kind of white collar status that she was raised to believe was of utmost importance. My dad was the guy up at 5AM on Thanksgiving making legendary pies. The only thing I ever recall my mother making was lasagna, and I think she literally just put it together but my dad did everything else. I rarely remember her even eating much, let alone cooking. But my dad was planning dinner over his bowl of Total cereal at 7AM, every morning.

My dad and I didn't have bonding activities where I learned things so much. Rather, I just got told what not to do or what I did wrong. We bonded over television shows and cynical humor. My mom was only nice when she bought me things, and then if I exhibited any shred of buyer's remorse, like "Maybe that sassy shirt was a bad idea for a Catholic school girl with no self-esteem," I became an "ungrateful little shit." Terms of endearment. 

When I was in therapy and dating my then-chef-boyfriend, whom is now my chef-husband, one of my depression group homework exercises was to try something new that would give me a sense of accomplishment. Bonus points if it included others. I wanted to make spaghetti sauce with real veggies and tomatoes and stuff. I did this with Eben's prep help and supervision, but had to follow the recipe and do the watching myself, and I was able to feed the house that evening. It came out well. 

Besides occasional peeks over my dad's shoulder, I had one slutty friend in high school show me how to make scrambled eggs when I was 17 so that was a big day. I need to name her, "slutty friend," because all other lessons were merely tales of her sexual triumphs at the ripe age of 16, random how-to's, as laid out by Cosmo, and then where to get thongs on sale if your mom wouldn't buy them for you. The scrambled egg lesson stuck, all other lessons would be for other blog entries or perhaps a conversation accompanied by alcohol.  

Other culinary lessons came from my middle sister. I spent a lot of time with her my first summer in Oregon, mostly because my dad didn't know what to do with me. She taught me how to make grilled cheese with my favorite Oregon cheese and my go-to for all shared mornings hence forth, French Toast. The french toast was fun because we always got epic bread to slather in the eggy mix. I remember my nephew thanking my sister for making it and my sister saying, "Nope, that was Aunt Ali." His response, "Nuh, uh, no way!," will forever be my cooking mantra and one of my favorite moments with him.

My grilled cheese triumph was immediately squashed when I offered to make my dad one in a, "See I learned things," way and he shamed me for the use of too much butter. "Nevermind," I shrugged as I channeled Eeyore in my response. Beyond that as soon as I found Eben it was like, why learn? I had someone who could always make it better. 

In her infinite wisdom, one of my favorite women and ex-employer, "Totally Tess," had warned me that one day I will want a real meal that I will be forced to create myself, and I will find all the shit in my pantry and have a recipe in hand. With a kid by my side I will be so desperate that I will make it. She told me one day it would happen. And damn, she was right!

This was NOT my first time with the crock pot. To be fair, all other experiences were not-so-awesome because my usual theory with cooking is, "It will all end up in the pan together anyway, what difference does the order make?" It was those little details that always made something less edible. That, and my basic and general misjudgment on the effects of heat. I butchered some chicken recently and now my friend will only pay for me to eat out, or cook for me himself. 

So, this recent crock pot exercise could have been some spasm of all things previously hindering my culinary explorations but I'd like to say it's just one big exercise in confidence during a depressive episode. After a row of miscommunication and frustration I decided to find an attainable, easy to understand, uncomplicated recipe that I couldn't really mess up and it happens to be soup season. Much like Jerry Seinfeld had noted in a few episodes of his iconic show, soup is just always good, but I often feel awkward ordering soup in Florida in July. Since it is widely accepted as soup season, I thought, why not. Chicken Noodle Soup, here we come!

I enlisted my 4 year old's help because, as Daddy's sous chef, she actually has a much better cooking understanding than myself, and loves to help with things like that. I followed most of the directions closely so as not to mess up any kind of balance and ruin everything. I got all the ingredients myself at the store and did all the prep in the order of the recipe. It came out edible, edible enough that even the 4 year old volunteered to eat her creation, "except not the onions, mom." She got an onion and celery pass. 

It wasn't that it was "so impressive that I made it," but that it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. I come from a long line of people who can plan amazing things  and nothing ever comes of it. We fail to make those ideas realities. I like to say my half sisters and I are highly intelligent and creative underachievers. My dad likes to scoff because he paid for those under achievements. Mostly, for the soup, I was proud for following through on a plan that was a few days out in the making. Do they call that meal planning in adult life?

This triumph followed  a huge marital miscommunication about shelving. As a bit of a background, my dad built 3 houses in his lifetime, all of them still standing. I was that 7 year old girl who wanted a tool box and got one complete with real, actual tools. I learned how to use them properly and spent many days nailing wood scraps onto other wood scraps as my dad built a deck, a screened-in porch, a play house and a basket ball court for me over my 13 years as a Pastor's kid in Pennsylvania. Some of my  building visions came without me knowing the terminology, but just being able to pick out what I needed in the hardware store by finding it and forming ways to make the vision a reality. When Eben and I were dating I displayed this once and he was astounded that I knew my way around the hardware store. To this day, I love going to Lowe's and Home Depot as I feel like it is a haven of possibility and creativity. 

So, when I gathered a bunch of wire shelving pieces from my last job failure I knew you couldn't just grab a kit at Lowe's and manifest a Closet Maid ad. It would be a little homemade and rigged for necessity. It would require creativity. This is where my Eben and I just disconnected. I lack the vocabulary and have only the vision. And when it comes to ideas, I can Pinterest with the best of them and come out feeling strong so I thought I had planned it all. My understanding was clear. And when we started assembling, Eben was worried about stability. My idea was to reinforce later, for now the budget on the project was already more than I had planned to spend. He disagreed on timing and conveyed it was a no go with what we had on hand. 

Now, part of being the head-case that I am with depression, anxiety, PTSD and the #MeToo situation looming,  which I'm sure will make an epic blog when I can better understand my feelings on the incident, is that small things in the eyes of the normal folk can be huge things for me. So devoting an entire day to a project promoting productivity and order for my manic mind, only to find out it will not be done without more money and more stress than anticipated caused a pretty big mental collapse. It's honestly very tough to explain adequately. So, after a rough few days I pulled myself back up with plan B, one in which I would do solo.

I realized we had a saw --that had never been used-- scrap wood, and drywall screws. It didn't have to look pretty. It had to be functional. In a rare burst of Rosie The Riveter confidence, I started sawing with the hand saw to cut the pieces I needed to secure the shelving. The rest came together with up-cycled crib pieces, zip ties and nails. This was my house. I don't care about holes, I wanted a functional creation! So after I put Luna to bed, and still in my work clothes, I attacked all of these half-pinteresting ideas and made my vision a reality. By the end of that evening, that was when I decided to crock pot something because after my closet masterpiece, what could I NOT create? Let's be real. I was a frigging rock star!

I love how all of this was fueled by a huge mental breakdown. Perhaps I should lose my shit more often. Creativity awaits. I was even more validated in my closet success when my 4 year old said, "The shelf looks good mommy, let me show you!" She walked me back into my closet and said, "You did good mommy! I like it!" That was all the acceptance I needed really. And I carried that excitement the rest of the week and got her to go to the store to help me get all the soup stuff and told her I needed her to help me get it all ready. 

So the soup is a big deal. This is me, sifting through the mania, the broken pieces and the "unstable" moments to grow and get better. Life is so often very heavy, no matter how good you have it. And I spend so much time just praying for my perfect little girl to never end up a mess like her mommy that if I can redeem the bad mom moments by showing her that I can actually do many real things, that I can comfort, create and am capable than more than I even acknowledge myself, it can't all be that bad! And yes, Daddy will always make food better, but mommy also knows where all the best restaurants are in the area. 

Big deals are good for my anxiety-riddled soul. Small accomplishments can be very large wins. After my last blog installment, I was very humbled by those that reached out to me about their struggles with the same mental hurdles. It was such a comfort to feel less alone, and to know that some of the most "together" people I admire most had the  same "irrational" fears and ideas. And maybe this is part of my calling, just to open up about the crazy and embrace anyone who needs a hug and gets comfort from how much fun I can put into the dysfunctional. I am incredibly broken and flawed, but I might be the most amazing train-wreck you'll ever see at the station when you really get to know me. Soup's on! Who's coming by for dinner?