Archive for November, 2011

Lagniappe: I Saw You

I saw you, Dad.

I saw you through the screen door of that house I don’t know.  I was on the second floor, up on stilts, so we must have been on the coast somewhere.  You were sitting in a lawn chair, facing the house. I don’t know why.  When you saw me, you waved, casually.  Here I am, you said with your wave, simultaneously trying to catch my eye and still telegraph your nonchalant style.  If you’re looking for me, here I am… not that it’s any big deal.

I was looking, Dad, out of the screen door of this strange coastal house.  I saw you.

I bolted through the door and screamed down those rickety stairs, watching with some measure of disbelief at how quickly my feet were moving.  I arrived safely at the bottom, fighting the urge to glance back at my accomplishment – because I didn’t want to take my eyes off of her.

I wanted to run to you and to fall into your arms, Dad, but she was there, right beside you.  And Dad, it’s been so long since I’ve seen her, I’m sure you understood why I went to her first.

I sprinted the fifteen yards or so from the stairs to where you both were sitting.  She tried to stand up, and partially succeeded, but I was there in an instant, crouching down, holding her.  We squatted there, like fools, hugging, and I was overwhelmed with joy and surprise and relief.  I touched her arms and face, inspecting her.  She was thin, and her hair was cropped short, but she was smiling and strong and limber and there.  She was there, and I was there.  We were together, and it was real.

I was desperate for the moment not to end.  So desperate that I actually thought to myself as she smiled at me, Please don’t let this end. Let me stay, at least for a while.

Of course, that’s when I was yanked away.  I startled awake, gasping, cold air filling my lungs.  I was alone in my dark bedroom.  She was gone.

And I missed you.

I closed my eyes again, trying to recreate the scene.  I saw you again, Dad, waving.  You were wearing one of your mesh trucker hats, propped high on your head, and a red plaid button down shirt, with short sleeves.  Your tan legs were crossed, right ankle resting on left knee.

I could see Mom again too, sitting next to you.  She was wearing that beige and white seersucker shirt, the one that, if I’m being honest, I always thought was kind of an odd choice for her.

I bolted again, but when I was about halfway down the stairs, my eyes opened.  My bedroom again.  The first hints of daylight peeked from behind the blinds.

I kept trying, over and over, and I kept seeing you sitting there, waving. It fell apart each time before I got down the stairs.  And each time I opened my eyes, the sun was a bit brighter.

My opportunity was missed.  The window, closed.

I’ll do better next time, Daddy.

I promise.

Inferiority

Life is easier now that we can bake cookies together.

Motherhood doesn’t come easily to me.

Don’t get me wrong, The Boy is thriving and I love him more than I ever dreamed possible, but parenting just isn’t a natural talent of mine.

Remember when you learned to play basketball for the first time, in gym class, and you slowly realized that some people just don’t have any hand-eye coordination?  It’s sort of like that.  When my friends hear my questions and concerns and frustrations about being a mom, they’re thinking, Why can’t she just put the ball in the basket?

An example:  When The Boy was but a wee thing — a month old, perhaps — my friends encouraged me to venture out.  Start small, they said.  Run a quick errand, or get a cup of coffee.  You’ll be surprised at how easy it is.

So I did.  I made sure he had a full belly, then put him in a fresh outfit.  Perhaps more noteworthy, I put me in a fresh outfit.  I packed an extra set of everything and set out for our two mile journey to the nearest coffee shop.

The drive was pleasant enough.  It was a sunny day, and when I looked back every five seconds, The Boy was oblivious, content.

My friends were right, I thought, it’s nice to be out.  We arrived uneventfully at the coffee shop.  I unclicked his bucket seat and carried him in.

It was about two o’clock on a weekday afternoon.  Aside from the baristas banging around behind the bar, it was quiet.  On a momentary break from life, the patrons were all quietly reading or pecking on a gadget or sipping coffee.  It was an oasis.  We had all escaped, including me.  I was out.

I walked to the counter, gently set the bucket on the floor, and dug around for my wallet.  That’s when the dream started to unravel.

Just as the barista asked what she could get for me, The Boy started to whimper.  Oh crap.  I reached out with my foot and tipped the round-bottomed bucket ever so slightly, to make it rock, and then quickly ordered a medium coffee to go.  Maybe if I acted like I knew what I was doing, it would all be okay.

For his part, The Boy was not amused.  The whimper quickly turned into a fuss.  My shoulders crept skyward, toward my earlobes.  Please tell me this isn’t happening.

The fuss turned into a cry, which quickly escalated into a howl.  I tossed some money on the counter, grabbed the coffee, and then turned and froze, staring down at my son.  How was I going to carry this heaping bucket-o-Boy and a cup of hot coffee at the same time?  And even if I could manage that, how was I going carry all that AND get my keys out AND unlock my door AND heave him back into the car?  I needed another arm.  (Octopus mamas must have it soooo easy.)

"Coffee shops aren't my thing. I'd rather hang in the kitchen."

The Boy kept howling, red now.  The bubble of our communal oasis had been burst — pillaged, sacked, plundered.  I could feel the intensely hot laser beams from everyone’s eyeballs, staring.  Now that I think about it, this explains why I broke out into a sweat.  Will someone please remind me why hot coffee was a good idea?

I had to get out of there.  I tucked the handle of the bucket into the crook of my strong arm and grabbed the coffee with the other hand.  I lurched like a zombie towards the door — bucket-toting arm lifted for leverage, coffee arm almost fully extended in anticipation of the now-certain spill, which would surely land directly on my infant son’s face and scald him beyond recognition.  Really?, I chided myself.  Hot coffee?

Outside, scorching tears of frustration, embarrassment and ineptitude sprang from my eyes as I ditched the cup in the garbage can and continued toward the car.  Once there, I looked him over.  His diaper was dry, his belly still full.  Nothing was poking or pulling or pinching him.  Why was he screaming?  Had I somehow dislocated his arm?  Were we being pursued by machete-wielding guerrillas, unbeknownst to me?  I looked around, just to be sure.

I eventually gave up, clicked his bucket back into the car, and drove home.  He screamed the whole way.  In fact, he screamed so loud and for so long, that he started to lose his voice.  (I challenge you to find that in a parenting book.)

Against my better judgment, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you and admit to something unflattering and quite uncourageous.  The thought that was going through my head as I pulled into the driveway was this:

I went and had a BABY and now I’m stuck in this HOUSE for the rest of my LIFE.

I’m about as extroverted as they come.  The thought of having to choose between staying home and breaking out in hives from the stress of “being out” was unbearable.  I felt as though I’d just heard my own death knell.

Things got better, of course.  The Boy grew and changed.  I grew and changed.  I went back to work, which helped.  He learned to crawl, then walk, then talk.  He’s no less demanding now, actually, but at least we understand each other.

Here’s another unflattering admission:  When I’m in quiet public places, like coffee shops and churches and movie theaters, and I hear a baby screaming, I secretly like it.  Even more so when it’s a mother, and she looks flustered, mopping her brow.  Isn’t that terrible?!

I’m not taking joy in their frustration, mind you; I’m just relishing the fact that I’m not alone.

Actually, I like to think of it this way: I’m curing myself of a quite-serious inferiority complex, one fussy baby at a time.

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In hindsight, a tiny coffee shop was not the greatest venue for a first adventure – I didn’t realize just how loud a baby could be in small quiet space.

My second mistake was actually ordering coffee.  What I should have done is ask for a cookie – a highly portable, room temperature, easily-scarfed-if-I-suddenly-have-to-carry-my-kid cookie.

The problem is, food at coffee shops is generally miserable.  So The Boy and I made cookies ourselves, which I adapted from the November issue of Food & Wine magazine.

Cranberry Chocolate Chip Cookies

Adapted from Dried Cranberry and Chocolate Cookies, Food & Wine, November 2011

1 1/2 cups dried cranberries
2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour
1 cup quick-cooking oats (or regular rolled oats)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon kosher salt
2 1/2 sticks unsalted butter, room temperature
1 cup light brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1 large egg, room temperature
1 large egg yolk, room temperature
1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups semisweet chocolate chips


Preheat the oven to 325°F. Line two baking sheets with parchment paper.  Cover the cranberries in hot water and let soak for at least 5 minutes, but not more than 10 minutes.  Drain the cranberries; set aside.


Meanwhile, in a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, oats, baking powder, baking soda and salt. In a standing mixer fitted with the paddle, beat the butter and both sugars at medium speed until creamy, about 3-4 minutes. Add the egg followed by the egg yolk and vanilla, beating well between additions and scraping down the side of the bowl as necessary.  Add the flour mixture, chocolate chips and cranberries all at once and stir just until combined.


Spoon heaping teaspoons of the dough onto the baking sheets, 2 inches apart. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the cookies begin to brown at the edges. Let the cookies cool on the baking sheets, then transfer them to a rack to cool completely.


Store in an airtight container.

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Go Big or Go Home

This year’s grand prize went to Chef Richard Hawthorne from Grotto Las Vegas, for his “Updated Tiramisu.” Congratulations, Chef Richard!

In my professional life, age has crept up on me.

Early in my career, I kept my head down and my mouth shut.  I watched and learned.  I unjammed the copy machine and befriended the guys in the mail room.  Above all, I made sure there was always a cover sheet on my TPS report.

Then – suddenly, it seemed — people started asking for my expertise.

Wait.  I have expertise?  It occurred to me that I’ve been working for fifteen years.  It occurred to me that that’s a long time; maybe I do know a thing or two about a thing or two.

Huh.

Something really interesting happens on the way up the corporate ladder.  You start taking on projects and making decisions, which usually involves working with a few young guns, and it’s difficult to remember that you’re not one of them anymore.  You think back to the managers you worked with back in the day – they were smart, they were put together, they were… old.  You do some mental math, and it strikes you that they must have been in their mid-thirties at the time.  You gasp as realize that you are in your mid-thirties. You’re “that guy” – that old manager.  See how it creeps up?

Okay, fine.  You’re old and you have more responsibility.  That leads to another realization – you suddenly know full well those young’uns are criticizing you at the water cooler.  You see the way they look at you; those pre-pubescent punks think your job is easy.  They think they have all the answers.

Hey!, you want to shout in their direction as you sprint by the water cooler, late for a meeting, this isn’t as easy as it looks! There are budget constraints and politics and too many board members and not enough minions…

You can’t say that, of course.  Didn’t I mention that there aren’t enough minions?

The thing is, they’re probably right, at least on some level.  They likely have some really good ideas – fresh takes on old problems, insights on new ones. Heck, they probably even know what cloud computing is. If you’re smart, you’ll tap into those ideas, sift through them, and put the good ones to work.

But how?  The smart kids – the ones with the first-class ideas – know that their safest course of action is to keep quiet.  Speaking up is risky.

In fact, soliciting ideas within your organization is such a prevalent management issue that The Wall Street Journal recently ran a piece about it.  The article, written by Rachel Emma Silverman, discusses methods ranging from the wearisome suggestion box to online idea-submission systems to dedicated ATM-like kiosks situated in high-traffic employee areas.

Those are all well and good, but the best example I’ve seen of a company tapping into the potential of its employees is at Landry’s, Inc.

For those who may not be familiar, the Landry’s empire, headquartered in Houston, is one of the largest in the country.  They operate 35 different concepts, which include over 300 restaurants and entertainment properties, and employ approximately 350 chefs.  They have operations in 31 states.

How do you even begin to manage all that?  How can you possibly keep the ideas fresh?  How do you inspire that many chefs to push the envelope, to keep innovating, to figure out what works best?  More importantly, how do you encourage the best ones to share what they know?

Well, if you’re Landry’s, you appeal to their egos and conduct an invitation-only smackdown.

For seven years, Landry’s has invited its top culinary professionals from across the country to compete head to head in a two-day cooking competition. This year, 36 chefs presented 78 dishes over a two day time period, battling for honors in four categories: appetizer, salad, entrée, and dessert.

The stakes?  Bragging rights, of course, along with the potential for their dish to be featured on menu of a Landry’s restaurant.  And for the first time, this year’s winner for Best Overall Dish won a trip to the annual Food & Wine Classic in Aspen, Colorado.

That’ll get the ideas brewing.

Here’s how it works: Invitations are extended to the company’s top chefs, which require the chefs to register their entries three weeks ahead of the competition.  On a first come, first served basis, the chefs sign up for the category in which they want to compete.

The management team creates a schedule dictating the exact time that each dish must be completed, at which time it is served to a panel of Landry’s executives for judging.  Each entry is scored on a numerical scale for creativity, presentation, and flavor.

The genius of the whole setup is this: the judging is blind.  The executives have no idea who submitted which dish.  In addition to fairness and objectivity, this levels the playing field.  The young guns have an unbiased shot at making a name for themselves.  The reputations of the old dogs and the current darlings bear no weight.  They have every incentive to swing for the fence.

In other words, go big or go home.

Landry’s invited me to observe this year’s competition behind the scenes, which was quite an adventure for this humble home cook. I hadn’t been in a commercial kitchen since my waitressing days, and even back then, I never witnessed anything close to this magnitude.  I had the opportunity to get to know the chefs, learn about what inspires them, why they do what they do, how they developed their technique.  I loved all the trash talk; I loved how much they wanted to win.

It was inspiring.  It made me want to cook.  It made me want to bring my best, in the kitchen and in life, too.

But perhaps most importantly, it made me want to motivate and inspire those young guns back at the office to go big or go home.

 

[Note: A slightly modified version of this post was first published as Motivate Your Employees to Go Big or Go Home on Technorati, which is pretty cool.]

Lagniappe: Letter to Mrs. Bixby

Today is November 11, 2011.  11/11/11.  Veterans’ Day.

I’m thinking of Dad, and the service he gave to our country during the Vietnam War.  We would have met for lunch today, like we did every year, and I would have thanked him for putting his life on hold when he received his draft letter from President Nixon.  Over lunch, I would have asked him to tell me a story about that time in his life. 

I wish I’d taken better notes about those stories.  I remember him telling me that the cook aboard their ship was a very hip little Vietnamese guy with French culinary training, which made for some fantastic meals.  That guy could make any of those Army rations taste good, he said.  Dad once showed me some photos he took of the chef, which he sent home to Mom.  I’m hoping I’ll find them one day, and I hope the chef’s name is scrawled on the back of one.

Dad also told stories of naval ships occassionally pulling alongside them, full of fresh-faced sailors on their first tour.  They were excited about pulling into port for R&R, ready to find some cheap liquor and a few exotic girls, but they’d been warned that their Navy uniforms were too conspicuous, that they’d be easy targets.  So they would trade the Army guys cases of steaks and lobster tails (?!) for extra sets of fatigues.  That night, Dad and his comrades would dine like kings, thanks to their petite Franco-Vietnamese chef, and they’d laugh at all those sissy sailors who probably still got pick-pocketed in some Saigon bar before they had a chance to find any girls.

But I’m obviously not hearing any stories from Dad today.  Instead, all I can do is express my genuine gratitude to those who served and continue to serve our great country, and try to live a life that honors the sacrifice they made.

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Last Easter, Aunt Denise surprised me with a copy of One Hundred and One Famous Poems: With a Prose Supplement, copyright 1924.  She knows I collect vintage books, and she knows I like poetry.  Don’t you wish she were your auntie?  You should.

Sometimes when I want to distract myself from my own thoughts — thoughts about the fact that I’ve heard all the stories I’m ever going to hear from Dad, for example — I like to open up Aunt Denise’s book to a random page and see where it takes me.  I did this yesterday, and I found myself in the brief prose section, which included Abraham Lincoln’s celebrated “Letter to Mrs. Bixby.”  It seemed like something I should share with you today.

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In the fall of 1864, Massachusetts Governor John A. Andrew wrote to President Lincoln asking him to express condolences to Mrs. Lydia Bixby, a widow who was believed to have lost five sons during the Civil War.  According to my book, a copy of this letter hangs on the walls of Brasenose College, Oxford University, England, “as a model of purest English, rarely, if ever, surpassed.”

 

It reads: 

 

Executive Mansion,
Washington, Nov. 21, 1864.

To Mrs. Bixby, Boston, Mass.,

Dear Madam,

I have been shown in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,

A. Lincoln

 

Lagniappe: Looking Back on WFI

An upside to having been around for two years is the ability to reference what has inspired me in the past.  Instead of just having a foggy sense of what I was up to last year and the year before, I can actually go look.  This must be why people keep journals — a discipline I have never mastered.

Two years ago, I wrote about the opening weekend of deer season, which is actually underway at this very moment.  I shared my own experience of deer hunting and the adventure of aging and butchering the venison at home.  Talk about eating locally!  Check it out here if you’re interested.

Last year, I was testing Thanksgiving recipes and stumbled across a sweet potato meringue pie, which isn’t something you see every day.  The recipe came together so easily and beautifully, that it occurred to me that the experience of making pies is vastly different than the process of creating a cake, which I wrote about here.

That’s also when I learned that Matt doesn’t like booze in his dessert, a fact that still baffles me.  Of course, that didn’t divert me from adding rum to the buttercream filling in the @#$%! ribbon cake, or making ice cream flavored with not one but two liquors.  And based on my dear friend Brooke’s request for bread pudding (in the comments on the apple galette post), I see a hard sauce in his future, too.

It’s a tough life he leads, but I think he’ll survive.

I honestly can’t believe we’re rounding third on 2011.  Hope all of you are well.