Three words I cannot stand...

Three words I cannot stand:
"Foodie"
"De-lish"
"Yummy" (said by adults to other adults)

I understand that food has become a culture in this country and frankly that's a good thing. I'm hoping that it leads us to a more enlightened state where we care about where our food comes from and how. The choices we have in restaurants, in shopping, even in our condiments. In my house, growing up we pretty much had ketchup, mustard (we were fairly sophisticated because we also had dijon), worcestershire sauce, and horseradish. Now it is not uncommon to open a refrigerator and see various levels of soy sauce, Thai sauces, endless varieties of mustards, chutneys, miso paste, wasabi, etc.. In our cabinets, the spices go on and on, from nationality to nationality, not to mention all of the salts,vinegars and varying levels of virginity in our olive oils.

This is good. We are a melting pot of tastes now.

As a teenager in the suburbs in the 70's we had one really, really lousy Chinese restaurant. Now there are endless ones (along with nail salons) although they've become a fusion referred to as "Asian" which takes away from authenticity, I do applaud their presence. Overall if the suburbs are the barometer, global influence has snuck into what was once a whitebread culture. Again, in my opinion this is positive.
But like dogs in Halloween costumes, I don't like the inappropriate cute-ness in language about what we eat. The term "foodie" has always turned my stomach. We all eat food for sustenance, some are more fascinated by it than others. Food-oephiles may be pretentious. Food-oculturists might sound like they sacrifice a goat and eat it's head while chanting. I don't know- I'd love to get some suggestions. It's just that "foodie" is too cute and as one who attempts to make a living at cooking the stuff it I don't support it. Please readers, feel free to come up with some alternatives in the comments box. Maybe we can start a grass-roots movement to abolish foodie from the English vocabulary.
Which leaves "de-lish" and "yummy".
I don't even care about EVOO any more. For those who have lived in a cave for the past 10 years, this is Rachel Ray's abbreviation for Extra virgin olive oil. Why don't I mind it? Because she's the only one who says it. No one else does. Fair enough.
De-lish often comes out of the mouth of very affected people. Usually to their private chefs. After beating them down earlier with a case of pre-party nerves, a couple of cocktails later, the surgically enhanced, over made-up hostess who's lip liner is now bleeding through a bit and if drinking red-wine her now burgundy colored teeth will come in to her kitchen, swishing designer outfit flowing and will exclaim to aforementioned brow-beaten chef that "everything was DE-LISH!". Maybe even give her a drunken hug laced with expensive perfume and hopefully a fat tip later.
And "yummy"? Yummy should only be said by children. "My mom's arugula pesto (remember, we are a food sophisticated culture now) is YUMMY!" Or an adoring mother spooning organic mashed sweet potatoes into the mouth of her baby is permitted to say "wasn't that yummy?" Yes. This is allowed.
But not by adults. To other adults. I have witnessed chefs who use this term. And more foolishly, to other chefs. When they do, these chefs all get the same twitch in the back of their necks, that chill. Reminding them once more of summer breezes in East Hampton where while they slaved over a hot Viking range they could hear the guests in the garden talk like children, with words like yummy, de-lish and "oh have you met Simon? He's a real Foodie."

May the wind be always at your back

I keep on saying it over and over. The wind has to be at my back. No more upstream swimming for this salmon. 

As we get older and gravity hits us, the collagen in our skin lessens, yet our brains get so damn smart. So here is my lesson learned.

1) I don't do toxic

2) I don't do crazy

and number 3:

The wind has got to be at my back. 

My bf doesn't seem to get it. He's worried about me. He keeps showing me help wanted ads for executive chef jobs. I repeatedly say no. No means no. 

It's not just the hours, the time spent on my feet, the burns, the cuts, the pressure.  Because frankly I can handle most of that. But not if it takes more effort than is really needed to do the job. I have now been fired twice in my life, which is not bad when you think about how many jobs I have had. It's a shitty feeling though and I don't want to have it again.

Sometimes I panic inside. Money- kid in college, health insurance, rent, I can go on and on. But I do know this; that any time I have faced adversity I always come out stronger and better for it.

When I was out of work two years ago, it led me to teaching. Teaching was something I found  great satisfaction in, I met people who became real friends and I grew a lot.

When I gave notice to Ms. Crazy last week regarding the private chef job I tried to put it in the most simple terms, "square peg, round hole". Does not fit.

I felt so relieved because though I was losing a paycheck, I was leaving an uphill battle that I would face every day trying to be the right person for that job. Truth be told I have only had one personal chef job where the people were really, really nice and not crazy. It was also my best paying job. Most of them are not like that.

I once wanted desperately to have my own business, something I fought for, worked at tirelessly, but being that so much was wrong, in the end gave me heartache both professionally and personally.  It did make me stronger, but that lesson has been learned and I'm done.

I live a good life. I got rid of so much that encumbered me. I now live in a small apartment with two dogs. My wonderful kids have grown into such amazing people. Great friends, love in my life and I am still young enough to have more adventures. Why should I be desperate?

Like marriage and partnership, both at which I failed at, I really understand now just how important it is to be the right one. I'll take any job out there short term but in the long run, I want that warm sun on my face with the wind at my back gently helping me go in the right direction. Wherever that may be.

May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.

May God be with you and bless you:
May you see your children's children.
May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
From this day forward.

May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.

May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.*

*Irish proverb (and quote from Johnny Depp in the movie "Blow")

I don't do crazy

I think at this time of my life I can make a few proclamations.  I have earned them.
First, I don't do toxic. If it's at all possible, I don't ever want to work in a toxic environment again. And by toxic I don't mean working in a nuclear power plant where any minute we could  have a meltdown.  I mean a place where there is poor management and backstabbing, that sort of thing. Been there, done that and I really don't want to do it again.
Next on the list-
I don't do crazy.
I have been a boss and I have been a worker-bee but I have never been a crazy (at least not in my professional life).  Some crazies are very successful people. I do think that creativity does require a little bit of loco and that brilliance can be tainted by meshugenah. Just look at Vincent Van Gogh.
I'm talking out and out mean, nasty, infantile, bossy, crazy. The kind of people that the movie "Horrible Bosses" was about. Which, by the way I went to see the first night it was out. I'd had one of those kind of weeks with my own horrible boss.
In my recent travels I had left toxic and felt the weight off of my shoulders. I no longer woke up to nasty e-mails every morning telling me what I did poorly or did not do correctly the night before. I wasn't someones bitch anymore and that was fine by me.
When I was called to a job as a private chef, I could not turn it down. The money was good and beggars cannot be choosers. So I traded in the field-hand's overalls and put on my clean domestic uniform. If you'll pardon the expression I went from being a field n----- to a house one.
When you move into the "big house" they make you sign a confidentiality agreement so there will be no mention of names or specifics here. That's not important anyway.
What is important is holding on to one's soul and dignity. I'm a class act. I am polite and gracious. I work hard, I'm honest and trustworthy. I know that most of these people are very rich and very spoiled and they are used to being pampered. It's all part of the deal.
At first there was a coolness factor being an insider on the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Shopping among the surgically altered faces of the upper east side ladies at Citarella. Being loaded into the shiny black Cadillac Esplanade (this is the vehicle de rigeur of the wealthy now) with a cooler containing thousands of dollars worth of ossetra caviar that I had to hold on my lap on the way to the Hamptons. The famous names that are all part of this circle that you will be feeding and waiting on.
What was not cool though, was being told one thing, then something different, then different again.  Being treated disrespectfully one minute and then treated like a bosom buddy the next.  Too many rules and regulations about a lot of minutia. A lot of micro managing. Insults.
I guess the one that pushed me over the edge was being berated over a piece of meat that I had little to do with. This berating took place in front of a guest who was also someone who works at a famous four star restaurant in New York. That clicked a switch in me.
After that I realized I was not dealing with someone who was rational. She pulled a really rotten move on me last minute and took away time I was supposed to travel and work with them and gave it to another cook. She had been begging me to hold off on taking any other work while she made her plans. I had rearranged my whole life around that two weeks for her, counted on that income and on a whim, she changed her mind.  Then when I called her on it, she lied and said she had merely suggested that I hold off on taking any other jobs while she solidified her plans. This is also a person who when she walks in the door looks at me and says, " I CANNOT EVEN THINK ABOUT FOOD RIGHT NOW. I AM MUCH TOO BUSY!!"
Cooking has to be done with some love and creativity. Unless you are just emptying a box of something, adding water to it and setting a timer- your brain must be involved. When I got crazy flying around my head it sucks those abilities right out of me. I tried to be invisible. Like writer's block, I could not think of what to make. She had a comment for everything and you never knew when she would fly off the handle.
I worked for one of the most famous crazies for a long time, but she was truly brilliant and as painful as the process was sometimes, the outcome was always spectacular and I was proud of what I produced. In this case I was often embarrassed by what we put out thanks to her input. One minute she's screaming at me about not touching the special $100 piece of meat, the next she is putting her "special barbecue sauce" (read- ketchup and mustard) on it.
So when the misery factor was just getting too high, and she last minute changed the work schedule that I had counted on, I knew I was done. Just like the $100 steak that she had burned.
She was just another crazy-ass mofo.
Really, I would rather be baking in a basement somewhere. Crazy breeds crazy and the more you are around it, the more you pick it up. Everyone runs around in these households trying to keep the king or queen crazy from going off the deep end.
Being a hair past the half century mark I gotta have some principles and I think that I have earned them. Maybe I won't have a pot to piss in, but I ain't  crazy and I don't work for them either.