I heart Tony Bourdain.

I’ll let you in on a little secret that they don’t want you to know. Here it is – the Food Network makes it look easy. Cooking for twenty-five, fifty, two hundred guests is crazy and hectic. Sure, once the event is over and you’re staring at a large pile of dirty dishes, there’s a great sense of pride and rewarding accomplishment. But really, it’s a difficult task. It’s not all champagne and audience appreciation.

My husband, Jeff, and I started our organic catering business in the fall of 2003, only a year after we met on a blind date. After cooking for thirteen years in various hotels, restaurants, and food service establishments, Jeff was burnt out and wanted to embark on something more rewarding and better in line with his personal views. Like others, I was a wide-eyed romantic about cooking for other people, and with years of experience in marketing and advertising, it was our first big adventure together.

I’d like to say that the first few caterings went smoothly, but they didn’t. Our first two were booked for the same day, at the same time, and as we left our kitchen to head in opposite directions for delivery, we kissed each other with smiles on our faces. The next day, when we received phone calls from both clients – one complaining that the bread on our sandwiches was too soggy, and the other, complimenting us on the food but noting that our prices were higher than they normally liked to spend on their staff – our smiles faded a bit. Our third catering that week went smoothly, except for the missing serving utensils we had accidentally left back at our kitchen. We thought quickly on our feet, borrowing utensils from the in-house cafeteria. The party guests raved about the food, and the host was extremely pleased. Our first loyal customer was born.

As the years progressed, we gained rave reviews and learned valuable lessons. I was a newbie in the food service industry, except for a stint as a hostess in high school, so I looked to Jeff for guidance, really learning most things by trial and error. Like, wild salmon is difficult to find in the middle of winter. And strawberries should only be listed on proposals for events in late spring and summer. Some of our more painful lessons, like plating dinners on a rooftop in the dark is always a bad idea, and making sure to list all ingredients of every item on each buffet as to avoid serious food allergies, were learned the hard way. But they were learned, nonetheless, and they helped us to build a better, more successful business.

Bio

Born in Northern California in the late 70s, I relocated with my mother and stepfather to Southeast Michigan and grew up in a small town just south of Ann Arbor named Milan, famous for its federal prison and local dragway races. Growing up, I was mortified to be trapped in such a small town, knowing everyone on every corner, and have only recently grown to appreciate that sense of community.

I was originally destined to be a musician – a vocalist, actually. My mother, a choir director, had me singing in front of a church congregation by age five, and I continued my music studies through elementary and junior high, with a spot on an international choir that toured Europe, music camp, a small part in an all-school musical, and placements in local and regional choirs.

High school was entertaining, as most people will tell you. I continued to pursue music, and developed an interest in photography, writing, and editing. At my junior year of high school, I joined a small vocal ensemble to compete and audition for a regional choir. Once we were awarded a spot in regionals, it was expected that we would compete for placement in the state choir. Upon hearing that I was happy with just the regional accomplishment, and not interested in pursuing the state level, my choir teacher told me I would never succeed in music, and I took him at his word.

Though I applied to a number of colleges, I chose Western Michigan University, funny enough, for their music program. I figured if I ever changed my mind about music, at least I wouldn’t have to go far. I originally decided on a Public Relations major within the Communications department, but during my junior year, while studying abroad in Australia, I enrolled in a Public Relations course and found myself quite dismayed by the course outline. I left the class, rescheduled for a graphic design course, and never went back. When I arrived back in Kalamazoo after my study abroad, I changed my degree from Public Relations to a more general Communications Studies major and a Graphic Arts minor. When visiting my old, crotchety graduation advisor during my senior year, he told me he expected to see me back in a few years since I “wouldn’t be able to get a job with this degree.” I told him I’d be back when I was more successful than he was.

Grief, Part 1

My mother, bless her heart, always tells me to “drop to my knees and pray” when I’m upset or angry. She believes in the power of God, a mysterious invisible character we’re taught to believe leads us through life, placing obstacles in our path and guiding us through the good and bad times of every day.

I had a solid belief in God. A proud member of the United Church of Christ since my earliest of years, I spent many Sundays (and choir-rehearsal Wednesdays) at our local church. My mother, the congregation choir director, was a prominent figure in our church, friendly with even the cursed of congregation members. As a young child, I grew up in our church, babysat by awkward teens who would develop into mothers of their own, bouncing from surrogate grandparent to surrogate grandparent at each sermon. The church became a second home, a source of comfort for me.

I continued my faith throughout my school years, faithfully arriving each Saturday morning for two years in order to fulfill my confirmation duties. My classmates, an assortment of misfits from local schools, joked and snickered when we practiced for our formal confirmation ceremony at the closing of the confirmation studies. Our wine “glasses”, they teased, would work perfectly for shots of alcohol after confirmation. I gathered we weren’t the first to figure this out.

Postage

Of course I panicked as soon as I came to my senses.

What had I done.

The note was simple enough. It never hinted of any interest or plan. I wished him well, offered my friendship, and hoped that he was doing well. That was all.

The real question was would he receive it. It had been a few years since we had last spoke. I barely remember his face, let alone any details of his address or personal whereabouts. I only knew of the precinct. I assumed he had been there for a while, comfortable with his team and his responsibilities. I assumed he had built a following of loyalty amongst the fellow officers.

I assumed if they received the note, and he was no longer at that location, that it would be forwarded it on.

I hoped, actually, that the note would land on the desk of a friend.....if not his own. I imagined if it did reach him, some idle evening, early in the shift. He sees the corner of the envelope in his Inbox and wonders about it's creme color. Not a standard white envelope.

The return address, short and sweet. Valid, in case you're wondering. Just the initials - J.M. I imagine he would wonder, and be unable to place the PO Box in the city.

The "To" address, his first name in quotes, a nod to his tale of martial arts mastery. I remember the confusion on the phone to the operator of the precinct when I phoned, once, to make plans. "I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name," she said, unsure. Minutes later, my cell phone rang, his smooth voice letting know that I had reached the right location. "West isn't your real name, is it?" I asked. "No," he answered back quickly, ending the conversation.

I hope that a small laugh escapes him as he reads my PS, a nod to an inside joke between us.




But even in the far reaches of possibility that he could receive a five year old note....

....will he write back?

You smell like donuts.

It’s almost traumatizing to think about the orchard. I spent so many hours there during my last few years of high school, working diligently every weekend from August to November, slapping happy faces on the oblivious visitors.

When I first interviewed for the seasonal job, the lady interviewing, with her big blonde hair and enormous glasses, asked if I was artistic at all. Sure, I said, singer, musician, artist. That weekend, I was placed in a permanent spot in the face-painting booth and I regretted being so eager to flaunt my artistic ability.

The fall festival itself ran from the end of August until the beginning of November, just past Halloween, and you were guaranteed at least a few snow days before the end of the season. Hayrides would run back and forth all season, carts of folks snuggled up in bundles of hay pulled by big, green tractors, out to the apple trees for people to pick. In October, some tractors would swing past the pumpkin patch. The orchard was a good size with plenty of parking. Trees lined the main street into the park, and folks parked in the big gravel lot that had been cleared. On one side of the street was the original building, with its red and white trim. The building had been there for over fifty years, and it smelled of apples, donuts, and country knickknacks.

I just don't think I'll ever get over you.

His story came in bits and pieces over the instant message. He was not yet divorced, only recently separated. Noticing his radio had disappeared from the seat next in his patrol car one morning, he drove home and entered in time to find her “entertaining” the neighbor on the living room couch. Silently, he retrieved his radio against his wife’s raging screams, and left, moving out the next day.

Some evenings, he would come to my house, my roommates answering the front door in time to find him wearing the most ridiculous Hawaiian shirts and wigs. I would stand at the top of the stairs laughing as he entered and climbed the stairs to my room. Quickly entering the room, he would lean into the closet, unbuckling the gun harness from his torso, and dropping it quickly to the ground.

A month into our courtship, I opened my email to find a me a long note detailing that he had offered to try to work on things with his wife. “I want to be a good Catholic,” he explained. His wife had made demands as well, asking that he leave his job with the district office and relocate to her hometown. Her daughter, she insisted, and their marriage, would benefit greatly from the changes. Even though I felt so strongly about him, I admired his need to work things out. I had to let him go.

“Please know that if things don’t work out, you’ll have a FedEx on your door the next day with a plane ticket and a spare key,” his last line read, “I love you.”

Bad Haikus!

As requested by my Memoir teacher...


dry heat surrounds me
much like in Arizona
rain beats hard outside

from a shave of hair
it's amazing, he becomes
a new sexy beau

words come together
at their own leisurely pace
why can't I crochet?

a quiet heart beats
tiny, just below surface
stay strong you young one

Sure, it was strange to have a drink in my hand as the recovering alcoholic dragged me to the dance floor, but this was Seattle, right? It’s really just the norm.

Nicole was different than I was – more outspoken, better dresser, sassy personality. She looked like she slept with everyone in the office, with the exception that she hadn’t. In fact, she hadn’t slept with anyone in a great while, and for that, I appreciated her.

We went dancing often, probably every few weeks or so. I would arrive at her house, looking as sassy as I could be, only to be overshadowed by Nicole’s new top, or zebra-print pants. What’s that they say – keep your friends close, keep your fun-loving, over-the-top friends closer?

I looked out over the ocean, as the waves of the Pacific Ocean crashed along the beaches of Cairns. The sound was deafening – crash, crash, CRASH. The sunburn, immeasurable.

The sea, my friend, dividing me with thousands of miles from friends and family. The waters, a rich blue, reached up to meet me as the sturdy white catamaran around me pounded through the waves towards our final destination. A small offshore viewing station, my anticipation of my upcoming time in the ocean, amongst the waves, growing.

Northern Queensland sits on the Northeast side of the Australian countryside, along the sprawling waves of the Great Barrier Reef. My colleagues and I, foreign visitors at best, had faithfully all signed up to join the great barrage of photo-taking, environment-harming tourist activities to explore the much-talked-about reef. The sturdy catamaran, a larger version of the small, family-friendly water cruiser, held an average of 50 visitors for each three-hour trip into the reef waters. On one side of the boat, a small, ten-person submarine, touted in the brochure as providing the “best reef views in town”. A small perch on the starboard of the boat open to tourists looking for a less-claustrophobic approach to the reef – tank-diving or snorkeling.

(untitled)

The bowl of sugar sat there, staring up at him, as if to say “Welcome home, sucker.”

He wondered for a long time, if he hadn’t have just left it there and forgotten about it. I could’ve just picked it up and set it down elsewhere, he rationalized.

Glancing over his shoulder, he checked the contents that remained on top of the microwave. He made a mental list, analyzing each jar. Flour on the end, first from the right. Baking powder, not much, need to pick up more at the store, second to the end. Salt, only a pinch, throw it over your right shoulder should you spill, keep intake to a minimum, third from the end. But when he reached the fourth spot, the empty spot where the sugar usually remained, he stared for a long time. It was empty, nothing but space between the salt and the powered sugar.

But when had he moved it?

But Ethan, when did you get here?

I had a dream about you last night. It was blurred, and moved quickly. You stood before me, my face buried in your chest, crying. I begged you to love me, I begged you to stay with me and not leave.

Then I was on a train and there were a dozen people around me, all laughing and screaming. But I sat there, tears streaming down my face, heart breaking, dialing your number frantically on my cell phone.

"I'm fishing today," you said, "before the wedding."

"But I love you," I answered. "Tell me you love me too."

But I didn't hear you reply. The train stopped and began to empty. I stood on the platform, trying unsuccessfully to get your voice back. A man stopped to ask me what was wrong, and I stood there, crying, wishing I had never walked away from you, though it was the only option at the time. He hugged me, revealing he was Ethan Hawke, and I told him I loved him in 'Explorers' and fought the urge to ask if him and Uma really were breaking up.

Suddenly I was in a corner, and Bryan Adams, my old high school buddy, stood before me. He hugged me, rubbing the top of my head like he used to, and kissed me. "Feel better?" he asked.

I sobbed, my chest feeling heavy and downtrodden. And the dream disappeared.

I've had dreams like this before, always this vivid. Dreams before, like standing at your house, looking through the windows at you and a party, seeing your smile, hearing your voice, hearing your laugh, unable to find the door to get in. And the other way - inside the house, surrounded by people, only able to catch a glimpse of you every once in a while and never able to actually get near you. Recurring dreams.

You're getting married today, 3200 miles away from me.

And it still makes me cry.

When I was younger, I traveled a great deal. My mother remarried after she and my father divorced, and we relocated to Michigan with my new stepfather. Every summer, and alternating holidays, I would fly to the other side of the country – California – to visit my father, my stepmother, and my half sister. It was an adventure I looked forward to every season.

My mother would dress me up in a brand new summer dress, with black patented leather shoes and frilly white socks. Upon arrival at the departure gate, I would walk proudly to the head of the line, where the gate attendant would hand me a shiny new pin of plastic airline wings and a red and white-striped badge with my name printed on it, stating that I was a “traveling minor”. After hugging my mother goodbye, the attendant would walk me down the long corridor to the entrance of the plane, where she would announce that I was traveling alone, and lead me to my window seat.

My anticipation was great, and I couldn’t wait to get off the ground. As I peered out the window, over the plane’s enormous wing, baggage handlers would run to and fro, preparing the flight for takeoff. I’d watch intently to see if I could spot my luggage being tossed into the storage belly of the plane. As we slowly backed away from the gate, I secretly hoped that a discombobulated baggage handler had mistakenly left someone’s bag on the ground, and as the plane rolled over it, we’d get to see what private items someone had packed – shorts, sandals, unmentionables, an expensive camera now fragmented into unrecognizable pieces, the only memories of someone’s recent vacation. Distraught from the mistake, the baggage handler would throw himself under one of the plane’s tires, unable to face the wrath of a manager or angry flyer. Now that would be some good airport drama!

Once the plane took off, the flight attendants would bring me notepads and pens, decks of cards, unlimited pop and pretzels. They’d say to me, “Just let us know if you need anything!” and I, wearing my invisible tiara, would smile at the thought of so many people at my beckoned call. I was the princess of the plane!

On occasion, I’d be asked if I was interested in seeing the cockpit. “Of course,” I would answer with glee, bounding from my chair restraints. Skipping down the aisle to the cockpit, the pilot and co-pilot would smile back at me, and the other “traveling minors” while explaining what this instrument and this instrument did. Ah, the mysteries of commercial flight.

I tend to file my nails everywhere. It’s a habit I’m very particular about. As I sit on my overstuffed suitcase filing away, in the middle of Houston International Airport, people look at me funny as they walk by. But you never know when you’re going to shred a nail, and after years of acrylics, my nails shred like crazy.

I find the airport to be the most fascinating place in the world, actually, and this is no different. Waiting for my computer to recharge between flights, I’ve propped myself against the wall of the Pilot’s Planning Room, along the edge of the blue-tiled hallway. Also known as George Bush International Airport, Houston’s main airport is everything you would imagine an airport named after a member of the Bush family would be – confusing, poorly designed, and bland. People rush by me, carrying a veritable plethora of overflowing paper bags, foot-long margarita glasses, dead flowers from a recent wedding. Travelers venturing to far-away locales, visits with family, military training camp. Traditional Amish in their bonnets and skirts, pilots in their stuffy uniforms, salesmen who look as though they’d rather be flying anywhere other than the destination stated on their ticket.

“Michigan, eh?” a pilot asks, staring down at my t-shirt as he leaves the room I’m resting against.
“What? Oh yes,” I answer back.
“Go plug in by the President’s Club,” he tells me, dragging his baggage behind him, “There’s free Internet.”

Why do I write?

I just do, you know?

Does that seem trite?

It’s not a conscious choice I’ve made, you see.

It is merely a part of me.

I write because sometimes, there is no one there to listen. When the day has ended, and the dog snores on the floor by my feet, sometimes there is no one there to talk with me. The television, with its incessant noise, blares in the background. It assumes that someone, anyone, is sitting there, listening to whatever’s being shown on the screen. And more than likely, there is. But late at night, when I’m alone on the couch, the darkness surrounding me outside, sometimes there is no one there to listen……to me.

I write because it is the only medium I feel I’m good at. I’ve taken all the classes – tennis, gymnastics, piano, and ballet. I studied vocal music all through school, only to be told by my choir director, who was disgusted by my lack of interest in pursuing a statewide vocal competition, that I would “never succeed in music.” I followed my love of ceramics throughout the years as well – art camp, classes, private lessons - only to be left with shelves upon shelves of pots of all sizes and shapes, overloaded with errors in technique. My pursuit of graphic design grew as I studied in the Southern Hemisphere, amongst students with years of practice. I foolhardily assumed that my love of colors, fonts, and layouts would carry me through my career, only to realize it took someone with a born talent to truly succeed behind the computer screen.

The Star

A tall kid, at 5’8”, he was certainly pudgy, but attractive in my mind. I had always appreciated boys who were intellectually stimulating, and could make me laugh, regardless of their size or shape. He was no different.

We began dating only three months into our freshman year. I had him in one of my classes, though I can’t remember which. He played basketball, and I was the basketball captain (which really meant I was there because I liked boys), so we often talked excitedly about the upcoming season, in between the “I love you” and “What did you bring for lunch?”

Only weeks into our “relationship”, his older brother started to harass him about dating me. It wasn’t that he didn’t like me, see, it was that his older brother’s friend didn’t like my best friend. David assured me through our neatly folded notes that we would pass during, before, and after class, that his brother’s opinion, and more importantly his brother’s friend's opinions, were not important.

In the end, his brother’s friends won out overall, and he broke up with me only after a short month of dating. It was Christmas time, and we had already bought presents for each other. We shared a humiliating present exchange after the breakup, smiling politely as we opened each other’s gifts. “I’m so sorry,” he said before he left.

He arrived the first day of our sophomore year, toned and trimmed from a summer of running and frequent basketball practice, looking less like my beloved boyfriend and more like the basketball captain he had become. President of student council, captain of the basketball, baseball, and cross country teams, and Homecoming King. To me, he was just a boy who had left me for his brother.

Years later (fourteen, fifteen years?) he still shows his face in my dreams. I can see it clearly, just as he was before we graduated – tall, athletic, a clean, dark buzz cut, gorgeous brown eyes, full lips, and a beautiful smile.

Only this time, his brother is the one left in the dust.

Blessed

When I really think about it...
...I can still feel your frail hand as I held it in mine so many months ago. Sometimes I lie in bed at night, wishing you were still here to talk with me of the past, and the future.

I remember those days, those last days in the home, when you would smile from ear to ear when I entered the room. I remember listening to every word you said, every story you told, no matter how often I had heard it before. I remember hating myself for not being able to take care of you.

Do you remember? When I taped a piece of Velcro to your emergency button, so you could find it easier? When I helped you onto your workout machine—you determined to strengthen your legs, to fight it to the end? Do you remember when I placed the angel by your bed as I struggled to choke back my tears?

The last memory I have of you—a broken man in a wheel chair, tired from years of military work, howling like an old mutt after the family finished their singing, plowing through my birthday cake with a grin. I fear I will cling to that memory for years, wishing I had said more to you then. I certainly would've had I known it would be our last memory together.

Ah ha. I have arrived.