Happiness in Two Bowls

It took me a little while, but my happiness isn’t found behind a counter; it’s usually right there on the counter, and it often comes in a bowl.

For the longest while, I tied my self worth to my net worth, and my empowerment to my spending power. 

I am such the silly girl. 

A few days ago, I put in my two weeks’ notice. In a week and a half, I will be jobless.

But I will be happy.

No Worries

Saturday was perhaps the best day I’ve had in a while, in that quiet, inviting everyday life sort of way. 

After getting the psych chapter done and finally starting and finishing the resume that haunted me for a week, I headed over the parents’ house for dinner. 

With an egg custard pie in hand, my Dad’s favorite, I walked in, grabbed an iced tea while disposing of the pie, plopped on the couch and let all the worries and stress just melt away. 

Emotions have been so close to the surface lately that I just needed a time and a space to simply be, with no demands and no expectations. And despite the heavy weight of our past, in the present, my parents have offered a quiet respite from the storm I find myself in. 

Of course, they know nothing of this storm. I try to keep it close to the vest, partially out of concern for them, and partially out of an alarming lack of trust that exists between us. 

In any case, the chicken was a little dry, but the potatoes and corn were the perfect comfort food, and the conversation around the table, helped along by my brother and his wife, was fast, furious and hilarious. 

A trip upstairs to see my brother’s children, the ferrets, was just the thing to make me smile. Ferrets are funny looking little creatures, but they’re cuddly nonetheless and I love nothing more than a good cuddle. 

Speaking of brothers and children, Lukas, the newest nephew, looks  blessedly like his mother. Maybe my brother will stop being a tremendous jackass, and I’ll see him soon. So not holding my breath. Oh, the joys of a broken and battered family. 

The night ended helping a friend pack for his move. I’m not sure how to adequately explain how happy it makes me to be useful. It wasn’t like I was a huge help or anything, but using my hands in productive ways, with good company, is immensely satisfying. 

For once, I drifted off to sleep with no worries weighing me down.

Frosted with Good Intentions

Although in my everyday existence, I am not the most observant of people, my job requires a certain attention to detail. I’ve developed over time the ability to spot when something just isn’t right.

I had just put the front frosty machine on wash; the coming storm promised a slow night, and I had a sick crew person I was sending home as early as possible, so things needed to be done early.

I turned around and L had the bucket of frosty from the front in her hand, and was about to dump it in the drive thru machine. Frozen frosty machines are not fun. Frosty customers who are told we have no shakes, no twisted frostys, and no frostys are not pleasant.

“Hey, hold on a sec. I just put that machine on wash. That is solid frosty.”
“I just wanted to get it done.”
“Why don’t I just put that in the walk-in until it melts a bit.”

I got about five steps, and then bam!, we no longer had a frozen frosty problem.

It wouldn’t have been so bad, if it had just stayed put, the the impact when the bucket hit the ground launched it everywhere.

And when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere:

Coke Float anyone?

Note to self: Get someone to shine that chili stove tonight. And scrub those barrels. I think more picture taking might lead to a cleaner store!

Progress

So, Operation Cook My Own Food is starting off splendiferously. I somehow managed to stretch my favorite dish ever into three separate meals. I’m thinking of naming it the Miracle of the Couscous.

My grocery bill isn’t even suffering for it. $30-$40 a week for food is actually much less than I spend eating out. Go me!

Granted, I’ll still be going to restaurants every once in a while, but I think fast food visits will be few and far between. I’m not very good advertisement for my own business.

C’est la vie!

Eating Better

 

The entire contents of my refridgerator are pictured above. Strawberry jam, mayo, butter, and a piece of chicken I rescued from the freezer to become part of my dinner tonight. (The surrounding items all belong to the family, who actually eat like normal people.)

Now. I’ve been trying to eat healthier, and failing quite fantastically. I have cut out fried foods almost entirely, and I have 15 less pounds to show for it, but that is about as far as it goes. Almost 100% of the food I consume does not come from my own kitchen. When I don’t feel like going out, I just don’t eat.

There is something very wrong with that.

The most ridiculous part of that statement is that I enjoy cooking. It’s a visceral, homey, inviting feeling the entire time I do it. And the pleasure of actually eating the food trumps it all. Fast food is cheap and easy, but it is completely unsatisfying. It makes eating into a chore, instead of a pleasure.

So, I have a new goal. Instead of focusing on eating healthier, I am going to focus on eating better, on actually enjoying every bit of food I consume. I figure that way, the healthier will take care of itself.

And I will take care of myself.

RANT

I like my job. It’s challenging, I’m pretty good at it, and there’s room for growth, but some days…

I really don’t understand the attitude that some people take when it comes to fast food.

We are serving you cheap food, rather quickly, so that your fat ass doesn’t have to do anything.

Some days, like maybe Friday and Saturday, your wait is a little longer, because HEY GUESS WHAT! Everyone else in the freakin tri-county area doesn’t want to cook, or has the I’m high munchies.

It’s no different than going grocery shopping on a Saturday morning–the lines are a little longer.

Add to this Saturday Night craziness a call out, and you’ve got a stressed out manager doing her job AND a position, AND covering the break that had to go out.

So, you’ll understand why I am being nice, but a little rushed with you, when you make inane requests of me.

And when you tell me I’m rude, you’ll understand why I just look at you blankly, close my window, and bag your food, while taking the next guy’s order.

You’ll also understand why when I open the window to give you your drinks, and you tell me I should find a new job, I silently agree with you for half a milisecond, and then give you that look I give total idiots and say, in my most sarcastic tone, “Yeeeeah. I’ll think about that.”

Then I’ll slam the window in your face and tell my sandwich maker to hand you your food, so that I don’t accidently spill it on your udders. Or is that your stomach?

Seriously, if you feel the need to be an ass to service people, you’ve got bigger problems than waiting an extra five minutes for that burger and fry that you clearly do not need.

The Sweet Life

I’m easing into my summer life. Between overtime, dating, cleaning, baking, and television, the proverbial plate is full.

It’s not yet June, so I don’t feel like I am wasting my summertime stuck in the house, so I am taking advantage of it while I can.

My favorite part of the brownies is the crispy part, so I figured out that if I make cookies of the mix, the whole thing is crispy. I’m really experimenting so that I can make baked goods for others, but the mistakes are still delicious enough to fatten me up.

I’m rediscovering the joy that is the novel; I had been reading books that were interesting, but not especially enjoyable. Non-fiction just doesn’t have that same sparkle for me. I love reading stories that capture cultures other than my own, which is why I loved Interperter of Maladies. After what I predict to be a short stay with 1984, a book I never read in school, I am finally reading The Gift of Asher Lev. I absolutely loved The Chosen and The Promise, so this should be quite the mental treat.

And then, of course, there is the matter of boys.

I don’t seek them out. As previously demonstrated, my life is both full and satisfying, but dating opportunities don’t need seeking out, something I wish had been true earlier in life. Imagine my surprise that in the ordinary course of events, some boys will just ask, simply because they are interested.

And there is fun to be had; dinners in which conversation, passionate conversation, is participated in by both parties. Movies that are mutually enjoyable, and that tense, but sweet moment at the end, when you wonder if he wants to, and he wonders if you want him to.

And of course the funny moments, when pressed for physical intimacy that goes beyond current familiarity.

“C’mon. Really kiss me.”

“This is the first date. What kind of ho do you think I am?”

Lunch

It started with browsing in the seafood department.

I had my list, but my compulsion ordered me up and down every aisle.

There they were, on a little bed of ice: Bay scallops.

So, I asked the fishmonger (okay, the Price Chopper Guy) for a quarter of a pound. He gave me a third of a pound, but I didn’t mind.

I went about my shopping, and devised a plan.

I struggled up the stairs with my $4o in groceries, paused to fill a pan with water and set it to boil. As waited for the water to boil, I put the groceries away, careful not to watch the pot.

I added a pinch of salt to the water and then a handful of whole grain pasta.
I gathered all my ingredients, ordering them by need. When they were assembled on the counter, I oiled my sautee pan, threw in the scallops and added enough garlic to give the sauce a kick.

Testing the scallops for doneness, I tasted the brine of the New England sea. Tender, but chewy, they were about ready.

Next came the vodka sauce. I poured too much in and thought of Mario Batali’s admonishment that sauce should be a condiment to the pasta, not saturate it like soup, but I shrugged. There’s no such thing as too much sauce.

The sauce popped in the pan while I drained the spaghetti in my bright blue colander and carefully brought it back the stove.

I flicked my wrist and watched the sauce fold over the pasta. Not as graceful as I’ve seen on Iron Chef, but it will do.

When I pour the concoction into a bowl, it does look like soup. It’s so hot, my hand burns through the bowl.

As I wait for it to cool, I sit down and write a blog entry, but it’s cool now, so the writing must stop.

Mmmmm…