From now on, I will get up and out before 9:00 a.m. if I want to go for a walk down to the berm, because, one: the day was sunny and hot, and required sunblock so now I smell like sunblock; and two: it was unusually crowded and felt like I was at the county fair, weaving in and out between people that were meandering but would suddenly stop midst meander to report on some occurrence or photograph a blurred moment, and I would have to throw on the brakes. Or almost tripping over the couple who were laying on the Canadian goose pooped grass sans blanket in the middle of a pathway through the public garden making no sense whatsoever. Of course anyone can lay on the grass, but right in front of the entry to the bricked walk? If I were a goose, I would have made an organic statement. If I were a Canadian, I would have inquired politely if they thought civilization was a recent idea.
Because I am an American, I used my garden path rage to step up the pace and buzzed around them, since the alternate route was a steep hill. But it was hot, and by this time I was soggy and wondering what on earth possessed me to think that this was an idea of merit. Coming to the railing beside where the two rivers meet Lake Erie wasn't any cooler, but I pushed on because I am taking a damn walk, you jazz-loving, grass-rolling tourists from the 'burbs.
I made it halfway down the berm before deciding that staggering from the heat wasn't that attractive, came about, and headed back across the asphalt towards home. Everything was soggy, including my sun spotted brain. Heat does not agree with me, and many of my jobs included working in restaurant kitchens in front of broilers and fryers during the summer. I would get tiny blisters all over, my whites sticking to me like Saran Wrap; the wait staff would keep us going with pitchers of ice water and cola, in hopes of getting their quiche out first.
Living in Florida was different, the heat was humid but you had the ocean to jump into and frankly, one could walk around like Jungle Jane with next to nothing on. I tell you, I have seen centenarians elasticized in speedos or origamied into bikinis. Nobody cares, it is just too freaking hot.
Got back and splashed water over my face; broke out the ice and loaded a glass for water, more water. Summer is overrated in my opinion, until the sun gets close to the western horizon, spills a hymnal spectrum, then reddens, descends, and the night hawks come out. Blessed night, when the day crowd has retreated and life slows down to an observant, sphinxlike measure. The night ones walk through the stillness of shadows, and can hear their own footsteps on the pavement; heavy doors are pulled open, dreams are spoken out loud. Colors disappear until a candle on the table blazes, casting an illuminating glow on many a question.
How could you know? Has anyone told you of the night? Sensation is magnified; sight, touch, hearing, smell; all increased to make up for the lack of depth in night vision, the reduced line of sight. Come home to sleep, and the night will soothe and calm, sending the brain into subconscious levels till we are no smarter than a lizard scurrying to the end of a branch. Yet inside works the laboratory of thought, instinct, premonition as we sleep, dreaming of tides, of searching for home.
I will tell you a story. Sleep well.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Storytime
"Books, books, books! Thousands! Millions of them! All spines intact! All these will I give you if you will obey me," said Harper Collins, Doubleday, Pantheon, and Random House.
I am hauling out over one hundred books so far, in the soon to be reached goal of eliminating the book case in the living room/studio for room to set up the H-frame easel just given to me by a dear, retiring art teacher. The above quote, twisted from Renfield in Todd Browning's film Dracula, indicates how many I have accumulated over the past twenty years due to a happy belief that the world is an evolving, large place with much to know. However, if I ever equated books with happiness, that was only a partly right supposition, built on the ancient history of my aunt's attic which was lined with shelves of books. The house had been owned by a dentist, and at the top of the scary, corkscrew stairway you scurried through the first room haunted by shapeless, crumbling furniture, then arrived at the second room which had an Oriental rug layered with a hundred years of silent dust. And there they were, the glorious, wooden shelves lining two whole walls, packed with books.
The shelves were filled with cloth-bound, hardcover editions of The Bobbsey Twins, Alice in Wonderland, and hundreds of others that, in the attic heat, gave up a sweet, papery aroma which still drives me delirious when opening a book from a former century. No glossy paper, no slick glossy covers, sometimes a handwritten note inside a front board. This trove was there when my Aunt Dorie bought the house; she would allow me to select a few, then get more when those were returned. It was part of the respite of visiting her and my cousins on Lafayette Avenue in the city, for I was allowed books at home.
In an attempt at creating a library of my own, I have amassed six bookcases worth, plus the books which sprout like mushrooms after a rain on smaller pieces of furniture, in a stack by the bed, or on the kitchen counter. And the art table. And the dresser. Everything flat has a purpose. They are sort of organized by subject; all the fungi books near the seashell identification guides and all other science. Silent film has three shelves to itself, then medieval stuff, humor, reference, poetry, home, cookbooks, theory, ancient civilization, the little bit of fiction, and art. Sort of. But since moving things around, it's jumbled, but I love it. Almost the same papery fragrance, they are comforting, practical; they give me roots.
Cookbooks are the easiest to pull; there are a few specialty books, like for cakes, various cultures, or soup that I will keep besides the old standbys. But I will never make my own sauerkraut. Then there are the philosophy books which have teeny tiny print and references by the yard; I've kept a few of those, but hermeneutics? Nah. No more. Algebra. Hamiltonian paths are lovely, and the basis for one of my favorite computer games, Planarity, but it's taking up needed shelf space. And so on. It is looking successful.
You will find things in books that will never make it onto the internet; old dictionaries have words no longer used; old cookbooks will list hygienic standards, and advise against going out into the night, when poisonous vapors waft up from the ground. Don't hang around swamps. Don't overheat your brain. Turning pages is a treat, and works without batteries; you can bookmark a page, write a note; go ahead, use pencil.
Reading in bed is a lovely pleasure, and there is a stack of books next to the bed; some are being read again, others have new subjects and ideas. One of the first animals to crawl out of the sea was a millipede-like segmented creature, which is why today's modern millipedes belong to the class of crustacea, like crabs. This stuff fascinates me, where things came from and where are they going, mineral, animal, vegetable.
Sleep well this cool summer night, take a book in with you and read; what is the commonality which links you to this story, whether of earth or city, fact or fiction? You learn of the world, but you also get to know the secrets of yourself, and what to do about it. Fall into your pillow, I shall meet you up in the stars, midst the calm darkness, dreaming of wishes, dreaming of time. You storybook, you.
I am hauling out over one hundred books so far, in the soon to be reached goal of eliminating the book case in the living room/studio for room to set up the H-frame easel just given to me by a dear, retiring art teacher. The above quote, twisted from Renfield in Todd Browning's film Dracula, indicates how many I have accumulated over the past twenty years due to a happy belief that the world is an evolving, large place with much to know. However, if I ever equated books with happiness, that was only a partly right supposition, built on the ancient history of my aunt's attic which was lined with shelves of books. The house had been owned by a dentist, and at the top of the scary, corkscrew stairway you scurried through the first room haunted by shapeless, crumbling furniture, then arrived at the second room which had an Oriental rug layered with a hundred years of silent dust. And there they were, the glorious, wooden shelves lining two whole walls, packed with books.
The shelves were filled with cloth-bound, hardcover editions of The Bobbsey Twins, Alice in Wonderland, and hundreds of others that, in the attic heat, gave up a sweet, papery aroma which still drives me delirious when opening a book from a former century. No glossy paper, no slick glossy covers, sometimes a handwritten note inside a front board. This trove was there when my Aunt Dorie bought the house; she would allow me to select a few, then get more when those were returned. It was part of the respite of visiting her and my cousins on Lafayette Avenue in the city, for I was allowed books at home.
In an attempt at creating a library of my own, I have amassed six bookcases worth, plus the books which sprout like mushrooms after a rain on smaller pieces of furniture, in a stack by the bed, or on the kitchen counter. And the art table. And the dresser. Everything flat has a purpose. They are sort of organized by subject; all the fungi books near the seashell identification guides and all other science. Silent film has three shelves to itself, then medieval stuff, humor, reference, poetry, home, cookbooks, theory, ancient civilization, the little bit of fiction, and art. Sort of. But since moving things around, it's jumbled, but I love it. Almost the same papery fragrance, they are comforting, practical; they give me roots.
Cookbooks are the easiest to pull; there are a few specialty books, like for cakes, various cultures, or soup that I will keep besides the old standbys. But I will never make my own sauerkraut. Then there are the philosophy books which have teeny tiny print and references by the yard; I've kept a few of those, but hermeneutics? Nah. No more. Algebra. Hamiltonian paths are lovely, and the basis for one of my favorite computer games, Planarity, but it's taking up needed shelf space. And so on. It is looking successful.
You will find things in books that will never make it onto the internet; old dictionaries have words no longer used; old cookbooks will list hygienic standards, and advise against going out into the night, when poisonous vapors waft up from the ground. Don't hang around swamps. Don't overheat your brain. Turning pages is a treat, and works without batteries; you can bookmark a page, write a note; go ahead, use pencil.
Reading in bed is a lovely pleasure, and there is a stack of books next to the bed; some are being read again, others have new subjects and ideas. One of the first animals to crawl out of the sea was a millipede-like segmented creature, which is why today's modern millipedes belong to the class of crustacea, like crabs. This stuff fascinates me, where things came from and where are they going, mineral, animal, vegetable.
Sleep well this cool summer night, take a book in with you and read; what is the commonality which links you to this story, whether of earth or city, fact or fiction? You learn of the world, but you also get to know the secrets of yourself, and what to do about it. Fall into your pillow, I shall meet you up in the stars, midst the calm darkness, dreaming of wishes, dreaming of time. You storybook, you.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Suburban Gullywash
Today I went through a McDonald's drive thru; things have changed in America even out in the glazed plains of the outer suburbs. Surrounded by immense stores singular in design, ubiquitous in the use of plastic forms for decoration, this McDonald's was an island in asphalt, barricaded by yellow curbs, organized by yellow arrows, and miniature arched signage.
A large semi blocked the first ordering intercom, on its white side was printed a model burger stacked evenly with green leaf lettuce and the slogan "I'm lovin' it". I scooted around to the second intercom, order given and then around the bend to the first window, which was closed. It stayed shut until the young man partially slid it open, said, "That'll be $7.06", and promptly closed the window again. When I waved the money at him, he reopened the window then reshut it tightly, only opening it partway to hand back the change. On the window was a sign, "No video recording, photographs by camera or cell phone allowed." They weren't lovin' that.
I drove to the next window, which was shut, I waited a bit for the food person to arrive with the order. He cracked open the window, scooched the food out, Haveaniceday, and bam. Closed up tighter than a quahog clam. Made me feel dangerous, a hoodlum in a 2001 Chevy Cavalier. Since I am fairly harmless looking, it can be surmised that this has become company policy at this base in the suburban strip mall village. Go to a McD's in my neighborhood, and there's a chance you can come home with tabs of LSD. No lie; the manager was supplementing his income at the drive thru. Ask for Demmie.
But both you and I know why this is happening, go to any video website and type in "McDonald's fight" to witness tantrums fueled by drugs. Chicken nuggets make people go crazy, they ought to install sprinklers like in the produce section of the supermarket at the order intercom, and load them with dopamine. Everyone would be happy. Reports state that the most common drugs in the water supply are Prozac, Effexor, and Tegretol, all mood stabilizers; now that society consumes a packaged, filtered product, we miss the side effects which have the potential to make you see that missing cheese on your burger isn't a personal jab at your shame in not getting what you want. Drink more water out of the tap, people.
Back in the city, a friend and I walked over to a nearby restaurant for lunch; it was full of people under 35 and felt more like a franchise cutie pie brewery one would encounter out in the 'burbs. There are several of these establishments, newly built, full of signage with clever sayings, and by clever sayings, I mean something a nine year old with a permanent marker would write on his sister's dresser. So, is the reverse happening, that the recently developed part of the city is becoming a calming bowl of cornflakes? Huge resin figures of humans doing funny things inhabit this brewery, lending a carnival merry-go-round atmosphere, with smaller versions adorning the taps. Whee. The food was okay, the crowd was okay, you knew there weren't going to be any fights, particularly after a wedding party entered in heels and suit jackets, looking for lemon drop martinis.
On the surface, suburbia looks rather flat and the inhabitants like it that way; the arguments, oddities, and the anonymous are expected to stay within boundaries outlined by expressways and poverty levels. I can't say I blame folks for being cautious, they only want to get home in one piece; but keeping the upsettedness of people with few social skills out by keeping your windows closed won't deter a frustrated human displaying poor judgment from walking through the front door and launching "Wet Floor" signs over the counter. You have to learn to deal with life, at least through first-hand observation; do stay out of the dangerous neighborhoods, but come walk a city sidewalk and you'll breathe easier knowing that your intuition will take care of 95% of the problems.
The kids working at the McDonald's looked tense to me, maybe they went through shut-the-window instruction that morning, maybe there was an irate customer raising indignant hell the day before; maybe the drive-thru lines that I've experienced were manned by servers who had seven inch hairpins hidden under their Happy Hats. It was just different, and I wondered at the transposition of attitudes between city life and the suburban population.
The beautiful, beautiful rain has stopped, and here is the sun nearing the end of day horizon; a walk by the slabs of limestone and chert was lovely as the small waves of the lake and river mouthed at the stoney shore. I inhabit a pocket of space, only as big as peripheral vision and the depth before me creates; there are no people, I am framed by rocks, the zenith of the sky, and the stretch of water before me, a small slice of world, a narrow vision. There is peace in it, but lacking anything more than what attributes are held by silent nature until a young brown rabbit appears in the midst of clover at the end of the rocks. Another mammal, like me; warm-blooded, primate meet lagomorpha, how are the kids? Visible life changes the ethereal scenery into tangible, solid earth beneath foot and paw; good night, rabbit, time to get back home.
It is a blank, starless night still and covered by low clouds hanging above, full buckets of rain contained within. Today the rain shushed and shushed against the leaves of the maple trees, coming down in white sheets, droplets uncountable. Now the ground is soaked, yet in the dark the cool breath
of the earth meanders around corners and trees, over grasses and sleeping rabbits. Rest well, dream much. Latch doors, tuck under. Let go. Love well.
A large semi blocked the first ordering intercom, on its white side was printed a model burger stacked evenly with green leaf lettuce and the slogan "I'm lovin' it". I scooted around to the second intercom, order given and then around the bend to the first window, which was closed. It stayed shut until the young man partially slid it open, said, "That'll be $7.06", and promptly closed the window again. When I waved the money at him, he reopened the window then reshut it tightly, only opening it partway to hand back the change. On the window was a sign, "No video recording, photographs by camera or cell phone allowed." They weren't lovin' that.
I drove to the next window, which was shut, I waited a bit for the food person to arrive with the order. He cracked open the window, scooched the food out, Haveaniceday, and bam. Closed up tighter than a quahog clam. Made me feel dangerous, a hoodlum in a 2001 Chevy Cavalier. Since I am fairly harmless looking, it can be surmised that this has become company policy at this base in the suburban strip mall village. Go to a McD's in my neighborhood, and there's a chance you can come home with tabs of LSD. No lie; the manager was supplementing his income at the drive thru. Ask for Demmie.
But both you and I know why this is happening, go to any video website and type in "McDonald's fight" to witness tantrums fueled by drugs. Chicken nuggets make people go crazy, they ought to install sprinklers like in the produce section of the supermarket at the order intercom, and load them with dopamine. Everyone would be happy. Reports state that the most common drugs in the water supply are Prozac, Effexor, and Tegretol, all mood stabilizers; now that society consumes a packaged, filtered product, we miss the side effects which have the potential to make you see that missing cheese on your burger isn't a personal jab at your shame in not getting what you want. Drink more water out of the tap, people.
Back in the city, a friend and I walked over to a nearby restaurant for lunch; it was full of people under 35 and felt more like a franchise cutie pie brewery one would encounter out in the 'burbs. There are several of these establishments, newly built, full of signage with clever sayings, and by clever sayings, I mean something a nine year old with a permanent marker would write on his sister's dresser. So, is the reverse happening, that the recently developed part of the city is becoming a calming bowl of cornflakes? Huge resin figures of humans doing funny things inhabit this brewery, lending a carnival merry-go-round atmosphere, with smaller versions adorning the taps. Whee. The food was okay, the crowd was okay, you knew there weren't going to be any fights, particularly after a wedding party entered in heels and suit jackets, looking for lemon drop martinis.
On the surface, suburbia looks rather flat and the inhabitants like it that way; the arguments, oddities, and the anonymous are expected to stay within boundaries outlined by expressways and poverty levels. I can't say I blame folks for being cautious, they only want to get home in one piece; but keeping the upsettedness of people with few social skills out by keeping your windows closed won't deter a frustrated human displaying poor judgment from walking through the front door and launching "Wet Floor" signs over the counter. You have to learn to deal with life, at least through first-hand observation; do stay out of the dangerous neighborhoods, but come walk a city sidewalk and you'll breathe easier knowing that your intuition will take care of 95% of the problems.
The kids working at the McDonald's looked tense to me, maybe they went through shut-the-window instruction that morning, maybe there was an irate customer raising indignant hell the day before; maybe the drive-thru lines that I've experienced were manned by servers who had seven inch hairpins hidden under their Happy Hats. It was just different, and I wondered at the transposition of attitudes between city life and the suburban population.
The beautiful, beautiful rain has stopped, and here is the sun nearing the end of day horizon; a walk by the slabs of limestone and chert was lovely as the small waves of the lake and river mouthed at the stoney shore. I inhabit a pocket of space, only as big as peripheral vision and the depth before me creates; there are no people, I am framed by rocks, the zenith of the sky, and the stretch of water before me, a small slice of world, a narrow vision. There is peace in it, but lacking anything more than what attributes are held by silent nature until a young brown rabbit appears in the midst of clover at the end of the rocks. Another mammal, like me; warm-blooded, primate meet lagomorpha, how are the kids? Visible life changes the ethereal scenery into tangible, solid earth beneath foot and paw; good night, rabbit, time to get back home.
It is a blank, starless night still and covered by low clouds hanging above, full buckets of rain contained within. Today the rain shushed and shushed against the leaves of the maple trees, coming down in white sheets, droplets uncountable. Now the ground is soaked, yet in the dark the cool breath
of the earth meanders around corners and trees, over grasses and sleeping rabbits. Rest well, dream much. Latch doors, tuck under. Let go. Love well.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Refrigerator of Natural Science
According to the microwave, it's 88:88 o'clock, a time found in Brobdingnagian clocktowers; I've unplugged several appliances to clean under them, and haven't reset the green blinking displays yet. There's more unplugging to be done, so for the moment A Real Clock of economical plastic from IKEA measures the hours.
And finally comes the day to clean out the refrigerator. It's a dedicated sweetie pie that has been working secondhand for me since 1995, almost twenty years. Sure, no light inside, and the freezer is a manual defrost that does not get cold enough to keep ice cream solid, but it was given to me by a good person and those happy wishes have kept the appliance going just fine for me. I do have a small chest freezer, as I am a conservator of sour cherries and on sale meat; this is where the rare ice cream carton lands and hides till I find it. It is my next project to thaw and arrange.
The ice and permafrost have built up in the upper regions of Siberia to the point where the flimsy plastic inside door won't shut. Only a couple of defrostings happened over the winter; once a week is the very best for smooth sailing and quick finishes. However, I have not been diligent, for many excellent reasons, and so here we are. Tool checklist: rubber gloves, a hairdryer, and a big whomping flathead screwdriver are lined up on the counter and I unplug this not too large refrigerator, surveying the white layers of ice. Plastic packages of spinach and peas are right on top; one gets tossed and the other is put into the microwave for supper. Mystery enters and swishes its cape, for now there is nothing but mounds of fluffy ice. I chop some out and make a snowball.
I find a bag of the sour cherries, frozen parsley, lima beans, blueberries and bacon. A pack of bacon. Another pack of bacon. Another pack of bacon. It must have been on sale. A plastic bag, the sort that you bring groceries home in, partly waggles the not-locked-in-ice part and is squishy. It's a bag of wool scarves; oh right, cold storage, as it were. Years ago a woolen sweater became fodder for clothes moths, so now I am cautious; this is why I keep clothing in my freezer. Only I forget where I put it; my favorite scarf is then missing, "I leeffffttt it somewhere". Who would ever think of looking in the freezer for their clothes? Not me. Only in spring, just like lost winter mittens in the backyard appear during thaws, the missing are resurrected on Defrosting Day.
The packages have been chopped out and put in a box wrapped in a blanket, and serious work begins; I snap on the gloves, plug in the sturdy hairdryer, and turn on the heat, aiming for the back of the compartment. The hot air then swirls around and is able to soften everything up; if you do a spot by spot method, you will, my friend, be hacking at ice till St. Swithin's Day, which is July 15th.
'St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain nae mair.'
Help yourself out by leveraging the blade of the screwdriver at areas of perceived weakness, chop carefully through the rack which holds the freezing coils; glaciers break and are caught by the drawer designed to do so. The drawer. This drawer has a flap that says "Winter position" and "Summer position," and if that happens in moments of clarity, well, fine. But I'm not staying up nights worrying about it.
As the drawer catches the thawing chunks and melt, I tussle them out one-handed as the drawer still is immobilized by ice. Stalactites and stalagmites are tossed into the kitchen sink to dissolve and why is this one brown? Brown ice is not a good sign of anything, yet more appears, browner. Stygian. I trace it back to a plastic container with a cracked bottom that once held beef stock, and has now mostly emptied itself into the catch all. I remove the mess and soap it out, scrubbing corners with a tooth brush; almost finished. The ice is gone, the coils are clean, and finally, the Glacial Age has subsided.
I put surviving food packets back, toss the wheat grass, congealed spinach, and the door now shuts, just lovely; I look at the refrigerator shelves, which have the appearance of a Jenga tower. Things are crammed in stacks, so it is to begin from the top down; after the frozen mammoths found in the freezer, this job turns out to be a lesson in natural sciences. This grey thing, for example. Round, hard, a rock in the fridge? Welp, there's a stem end, andddd, it's a lime! Technically.
There's a canister of whipped cream that was shoved over the edge of the wire shelf, circa April 2012; eggs from last year, two plastic bags that now hold produce that I don't know what it is, desquamation from the outside in has done a favor and reduced fibers to liquid. Oh come on, you never forgot there was broccoli back in there? A brown paper bag of potatoes has grown fingerlike roots, and there are foot long onion leaves growing from defunct bulbs; carrots have begun rooting and sending up shoots. This is biology, stubborn life within the Kingdom of Flora; let me next introduce you to the Kingdom of Fungi in one word: cheese.
Now cheese is a dairy base, the softer ones such as Brie, or the blue ones, such as Roquefort, have been given over to mold to flush mycelium through the curds (the blue stuff is Penicillium), or form an outside crust that softens the inner loveliness. Sideline: yeast (fungi) makes the dough rise; top with Brie (softened by fungi), add mushrooms (fungi) and you have the Kingdom of Fungi Pizza. Neat, yes? Yes? Anyways, there is good cheese, and moldy cheese that Dr. Jonas Salk would be proud of; it seems the supermarket brand is intact, yet the organic local variety has more blue fuzz than a 70's shag rug.
So did you know that pickles can get moldy? I didn't. But look, we are on the bottom shelf, and all that's left are jars of jelly with barely one spoonful left; I don't even care for jelly that much, but am loath to throw food away. Obviously. Toss, toss, toss. The bins at the bottom are emptied and washed in the sink, everything is wiped down, and this looks so good that I should take a photo except that posting a photo of your fridge's insides is pathetic.
A refrigerator is a repository for food, all food, any food, and it can stay there for years; lord have mercy if you ever get inside a restaurant walk-in fridge. Don't ever order mousse, although I think that craze disappeared; I can give you an excellent recipe that won't upset your stomach, putting it politely. If you do indulge and don't get ill, that's because it's been made from a powdered mix you add milk to, like instant pudding except we will charge you $7 'cause we grated chocolate over it.
In one "restaurant" you could not throw anything away without the manager's approval, even if it was starting to look like a troll doll and spreading spores to it's neighboring stored menu items. In all restaurants I ever worked in, (except Chicago), if something landed on the floor, it was picked up and redished. We were to save cherry tomatoes from customer's plates, wash them, and plop them in the next salad. And butter for lobster or garlic bread? Scraped also from plates and melted down. Complain and send a steak back? If you're the hated owner of the place, the cooks will drop it on the floor and stomp it a few times. They put cigarettes in your trout's mouth for the server to pick out. Do not think this doesn't happen, I can call in witnesses.
When I moved back to Buffalo and worked at a chain restaurant, I was opening line cook because I knew how to put the complicated soft serve machine together. Were the parts ever washed? Mostly nope, unless I raised Cain with the dishwashers. Taken apart, put in a tub of water to soak overnight, not even rinsed off before being reassembled, with curds of soured mix coating the springs and widgets. But anyway, the part that I was getting to was the rats. Flip on the lights, and they would run over the Belgian waffle irons, as no one in their right mind would be able to throughly clean six of the things and get all the bits, so it was a waffle fest for the vermin. Uh, I think I've gone on too long, and best advice is to stay away from chain restaurants. There are never enough staff hired to take care of all the Board of Health rules, and an independent owner has a lot more to lose and probably cares about the place.
Except the last guy I worked for, he thought he was Frank Sinatra's evil twin; if you didn't want another drink after he offered, he'd put a gun to your head. I don't miss working in restaurants, but it has come full circle with my refrigerator patiently holding jars of applesauce from 1997. Appreciate your own cooking, my friend. Slapping peanut butter on bread counts, for you know that only you have been licking the side of the jar with your fingers, and not sharing it with something that has a pink snakey tail and squeaks.
The rainstorms have subsided, and everything that lives outside has had a drink of water; everyone inside has been served. Come on over and see my clean refrigerator, it now goes with the rest of the kitchen and is humming away.
Be gentle, be kind; sleep well and deep. Good heart, I can just tell.
And finally comes the day to clean out the refrigerator. It's a dedicated sweetie pie that has been working secondhand for me since 1995, almost twenty years. Sure, no light inside, and the freezer is a manual defrost that does not get cold enough to keep ice cream solid, but it was given to me by a good person and those happy wishes have kept the appliance going just fine for me. I do have a small chest freezer, as I am a conservator of sour cherries and on sale meat; this is where the rare ice cream carton lands and hides till I find it. It is my next project to thaw and arrange.
The ice and permafrost have built up in the upper regions of Siberia to the point where the flimsy plastic inside door won't shut. Only a couple of defrostings happened over the winter; once a week is the very best for smooth sailing and quick finishes. However, I have not been diligent, for many excellent reasons, and so here we are. Tool checklist: rubber gloves, a hairdryer, and a big whomping flathead screwdriver are lined up on the counter and I unplug this not too large refrigerator, surveying the white layers of ice. Plastic packages of spinach and peas are right on top; one gets tossed and the other is put into the microwave for supper. Mystery enters and swishes its cape, for now there is nothing but mounds of fluffy ice. I chop some out and make a snowball.
I find a bag of the sour cherries, frozen parsley, lima beans, blueberries and bacon. A pack of bacon. Another pack of bacon. Another pack of bacon. It must have been on sale. A plastic bag, the sort that you bring groceries home in, partly waggles the not-locked-in-ice part and is squishy. It's a bag of wool scarves; oh right, cold storage, as it were. Years ago a woolen sweater became fodder for clothes moths, so now I am cautious; this is why I keep clothing in my freezer. Only I forget where I put it; my favorite scarf is then missing, "I leeffffttt it somewhere". Who would ever think of looking in the freezer for their clothes? Not me. Only in spring, just like lost winter mittens in the backyard appear during thaws, the missing are resurrected on Defrosting Day.
The packages have been chopped out and put in a box wrapped in a blanket, and serious work begins; I snap on the gloves, plug in the sturdy hairdryer, and turn on the heat, aiming for the back of the compartment. The hot air then swirls around and is able to soften everything up; if you do a spot by spot method, you will, my friend, be hacking at ice till St. Swithin's Day, which is July 15th.
'St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain nae mair.'
Help yourself out by leveraging the blade of the screwdriver at areas of perceived weakness, chop carefully through the rack which holds the freezing coils; glaciers break and are caught by the drawer designed to do so. The drawer. This drawer has a flap that says "Winter position" and "Summer position," and if that happens in moments of clarity, well, fine. But I'm not staying up nights worrying about it.
As the drawer catches the thawing chunks and melt, I tussle them out one-handed as the drawer still is immobilized by ice. Stalactites and stalagmites are tossed into the kitchen sink to dissolve and why is this one brown? Brown ice is not a good sign of anything, yet more appears, browner. Stygian. I trace it back to a plastic container with a cracked bottom that once held beef stock, and has now mostly emptied itself into the catch all. I remove the mess and soap it out, scrubbing corners with a tooth brush; almost finished. The ice is gone, the coils are clean, and finally, the Glacial Age has subsided.
I put surviving food packets back, toss the wheat grass, congealed spinach, and the door now shuts, just lovely; I look at the refrigerator shelves, which have the appearance of a Jenga tower. Things are crammed in stacks, so it is to begin from the top down; after the frozen mammoths found in the freezer, this job turns out to be a lesson in natural sciences. This grey thing, for example. Round, hard, a rock in the fridge? Welp, there's a stem end, andddd, it's a lime! Technically.
There's a canister of whipped cream that was shoved over the edge of the wire shelf, circa April 2012; eggs from last year, two plastic bags that now hold produce that I don't know what it is, desquamation from the outside in has done a favor and reduced fibers to liquid. Oh come on, you never forgot there was broccoli back in there? A brown paper bag of potatoes has grown fingerlike roots, and there are foot long onion leaves growing from defunct bulbs; carrots have begun rooting and sending up shoots. This is biology, stubborn life within the Kingdom of Flora; let me next introduce you to the Kingdom of Fungi in one word: cheese.
Now cheese is a dairy base, the softer ones such as Brie, or the blue ones, such as Roquefort, have been given over to mold to flush mycelium through the curds (the blue stuff is Penicillium), or form an outside crust that softens the inner loveliness. Sideline: yeast (fungi) makes the dough rise; top with Brie (softened by fungi), add mushrooms (fungi) and you have the Kingdom of Fungi Pizza. Neat, yes? Yes? Anyways, there is good cheese, and moldy cheese that Dr. Jonas Salk would be proud of; it seems the supermarket brand is intact, yet the organic local variety has more blue fuzz than a 70's shag rug.
So did you know that pickles can get moldy? I didn't. But look, we are on the bottom shelf, and all that's left are jars of jelly with barely one spoonful left; I don't even care for jelly that much, but am loath to throw food away. Obviously. Toss, toss, toss. The bins at the bottom are emptied and washed in the sink, everything is wiped down, and this looks so good that I should take a photo except that posting a photo of your fridge's insides is pathetic.
A refrigerator is a repository for food, all food, any food, and it can stay there for years; lord have mercy if you ever get inside a restaurant walk-in fridge. Don't ever order mousse, although I think that craze disappeared; I can give you an excellent recipe that won't upset your stomach, putting it politely. If you do indulge and don't get ill, that's because it's been made from a powdered mix you add milk to, like instant pudding except we will charge you $7 'cause we grated chocolate over it.
In one "restaurant" you could not throw anything away without the manager's approval, even if it was starting to look like a troll doll and spreading spores to it's neighboring stored menu items. In all restaurants I ever worked in, (except Chicago), if something landed on the floor, it was picked up and redished. We were to save cherry tomatoes from customer's plates, wash them, and plop them in the next salad. And butter for lobster or garlic bread? Scraped also from plates and melted down. Complain and send a steak back? If you're the hated owner of the place, the cooks will drop it on the floor and stomp it a few times. They put cigarettes in your trout's mouth for the server to pick out. Do not think this doesn't happen, I can call in witnesses.
When I moved back to Buffalo and worked at a chain restaurant, I was opening line cook because I knew how to put the complicated soft serve machine together. Were the parts ever washed? Mostly nope, unless I raised Cain with the dishwashers. Taken apart, put in a tub of water to soak overnight, not even rinsed off before being reassembled, with curds of soured mix coating the springs and widgets. But anyway, the part that I was getting to was the rats. Flip on the lights, and they would run over the Belgian waffle irons, as no one in their right mind would be able to throughly clean six of the things and get all the bits, so it was a waffle fest for the vermin. Uh, I think I've gone on too long, and best advice is to stay away from chain restaurants. There are never enough staff hired to take care of all the Board of Health rules, and an independent owner has a lot more to lose and probably cares about the place.
Except the last guy I worked for, he thought he was Frank Sinatra's evil twin; if you didn't want another drink after he offered, he'd put a gun to your head. I don't miss working in restaurants, but it has come full circle with my refrigerator patiently holding jars of applesauce from 1997. Appreciate your own cooking, my friend. Slapping peanut butter on bread counts, for you know that only you have been licking the side of the jar with your fingers, and not sharing it with something that has a pink snakey tail and squeaks.
The rainstorms have subsided, and everything that lives outside has had a drink of water; everyone inside has been served. Come on over and see my clean refrigerator, it now goes with the rest of the kitchen and is humming away.
Be gentle, be kind; sleep well and deep. Good heart, I can just tell.
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