Heard it All Before

oh lord, here we go again.

The One Thing

Many of my fondest food memories come from our family vacations.

My parents did not have a lot of extra money; budgets were followed and the Depression-era knowledge that each of my parents inherited from their parents’ scrimping and saving  figured large in my life.   Dad  fixed the cars, built the bookcases, landscaped the yard.  Mom balanced the checkbook, shopped the sales, put up the garden’s bounty.   But, despite whatever was going on financially, my parents always found a way for the four of us to take a week’s vacation.   And mostly, we went to the beach.

When we lived in DC, we went to  Scientists’ Cliffs on the Chesapeake Bay or to Virginia Beach at mouth of the Atlantic.  How, I don’t know…Dad was on a post-grad grant and Mother was a teacher’s aide.   When we moved to Tennessee, in the early Knoxville years when there was a bit more money, we went to Pawley’s Island, SC, paying a whopping $500 for a week’s stay at an early 1900’s beach-front rambler without air-conditioning.   Later, when they sought out something “less commercial” than Pawley’s (….as if ), we rented a privately owned, 2-room beach shack on a barrier island state park south of Charleston.

The common thread between all these places is that we ate well.   In hindsight, we ate very well.

There was a ritual to these oceanside vacations.  We’d depart as early as possible on a Saturday morning in July or August, drive the 4 to 6 hours in one of my Dad’s  Saab’s, stop at the local grocery store for the entire week’s worth of groceries, pick up the keys to wherever we were staying from whomever held them (real estate agent, neighbor, park ranger…), then descend upon our house, unload the car, claim our beds, set up house and get to preparing the first evening’s meal.

While Mom and Dad cooked and stowed, my sister and I would invariably explore the neighborhood, the woods, the beach, the marsh….whatever the immediate premises promised, we’d make quick survey of it.

Usually, that first meal was steak, baked potatoes and salad.   In our family, this meal is a “grounding” meal, one served on Sundays, at graduations and confirmations, on  arrival at some new vacation spot, at the arrival of a long-departed, much-loved relative and, mostly, just when all was right with the world.

The first “official” morning on the beach, the “rules” were  laid out:   We’d get up when we wanted to.   Breakfast was up to each of us.  Dad might surprise us at some point during the week with eggs and bacon and english muffins and fresh fruit.  Lunch was to be had after a nice morning on the beach. Liz had clean-up duties these nights:  I those.  And, with great importance, my parents would post the tidal schedule for the week, pointing out the optimum times to pursue dinner.

In the Brown family, lunch is a always smorgasbord:  cold cuts, american cheese in plastic sleeves, iceberg lettuce, cottage cheese, sliced tomatoes, leftover roasted chicken, green bean salad with onions, potato chips, dill pickles, beer with an ice cube….whatever.  After lunch, Mom and Dad  “napped” for an hour or so and we, as children, were encouraged and expected to go as far and as wide from the cabin as possible.    Ahem….

Crabbing was a sport in which none of us, meaning my Mother, Sister and I, had any interest.  But at Dad’s insistance and, through our reluctant experiential learning year-after-year, we all came to embrace it as an elemental event in the Brown Family Vacation.

The key, Dad explained each year, was to position ourselves at the outflow of a marsh exactly an hour before low tide.  This way, the brackish water would be draining from behind the barrier island into the ocean, and, with it, would come the hapless blue crabs, stupidly chasing their next scrap of food from the tidal creek floor.

So, armed with our chicken necks from the Red and White, the leaded hooks to which they were affixed and the 6 to 12-foot long runs of kite string tied to each, we’d cast our meaty lines into the quickly moving marsh water, waiting for dinner.   And we’d stand there.  In the blistering South Carolina Low Country sun.   The tiny mud crabs would emerge from their holes and  wave their single claws at us.  We’d wait.   And wait.   And talk.  And joke.  And explore.  And unwind, children and adults, unknowingly watching one of the primal forces of nature bring to us our next, glorious meal.

And then, invariably, one would amble along:  the embarassed blue crab, alternately eyeing the raw chicken neck, then us up through the water, then whatever flotsam was floating by.   But always, always, watching that chicken neck.    And, always, it went for the bird.  And with that, even an 8-year old can scoop his crab net into the water and grab the doomed bottom feeder.

Tom Brown was never more proud than when we’d load the car up with a styrofoam cooler full of live, constantly clicking, almost-hissing, crabs.  We’d drive a couple of miles past our beach cabin, off our tiny island, all of us happy, listening to Simon and Garfunkel.   On the next island, the “Gay Fish Company” sign was Dad’s signal to wheel the Saab down the sand path to a dock on a back stretch of the  marsh.  Liz and I would stay in the car while Mom and Dad picked up a couple of pounds of shrimp, right off the boat.

Once home, Dad quickly set to cooking the couple or  three-dozen crabs we’d caught.  A huge soup pot was put into action, two or three beers poured into its depths.   Once roiling, the sticky, sweet smell of boiling hops signalled it was time to send the crabs to their death.   One-by-by one, Dad placed them into the steamy barley with pathetic tongs, long past their prime.   The crabs would claw at the pot with a terrible, violent, horrible clamor in which I secretly took pleasure.

Then, suddenly, silence.

A few minutes later, the bright red crabs were pulled out of the steaming beer, placed back in the cooler, topped with ice from the Gay Fish Co. and set aside on the porch.   Mom then got to work on salad and set another pot to boil for the shrimp.   Outdoor showers were taken after last minute dips in the ocean.   When the shrimp was done and chilled on top of the crabs, freshly shucked corn was dropped into the hot water.   Gin and tonics were poured.   Music played.  Liz emerged from the shower, blond hair glistening gloriously as only an un-appreciative 15-year old’s can.  The evening breeze shifted and cooled the shack.

At the tiny porch table covered in newsprint, the bounty of our day was laid before us:   Dozens of beer-steamed blue crabs, a huge bowl of boiled, iced, South Carolina white shrimp,  drawn butter, homemade cocktail sauce, corn on the cob from a farmer’s garden a couple of islands over, a simple green salad with cucumbers and radishes and house dressing from Knoxville’s L’Orangery Restaurant.  Gin.  White wine.   Orange Juice Cocktails with marischino cherries.  Dinner rolls and soft butter.

From the beach came the constant crash of the Atlantic’s surf and the ever-increasing sound of  cicadas.  If we were lucky, the deer would quietly populate the two or three dune lines between us and the surf.

And if the universe was approving, which it invariably was, our evening walk on the beach would reveal a female sea turtle, or two, desperately laying her eggs, carrying on the traditions of eons.

I Don’t Have a Cent Where I Pay My Rent

I’m almost to the end of 3 weeks of training at the restaurant.   I think I pretty much know where everything “lives,” what the systems are, where the men’s room is, the personalities of my co-workers, what’s generally expected of me and how the ebb and flow of the night goes.   I have a great handle on the food (it’s what I’m most interested in) and the wine is coming….

But y’all, wine is hard!   Italian wine, even harder.  And a 150-bottle list, damn near intimidating.

Well, tonight we tasted dessert wines (one of the perks of training — sitting down after the shift and eating and drinking little sips of 8 or 12 bottles.  Rough duty…..).  And for the first time I felt completely comfortable with my opinions and observations on nose, taste and potential pairings.   My favorite, the Sauterne.    Wow, just wow!  Who knew mildew could be our friend?

And so I go, onward towards my food and wine test Friday.   I have two days off and I’m gonna study my ass off.  Not gonna stress about it.  Be organized.  Well-paced. And rational.

I’m happy.  The choices of two years ago were good.   Let’s see where this takes us, shall we?

Welcome

So, tired of sending resumes into the job black hole, aka internet, I decide a few weeks back to drop one off – in person – at my favorite neighborhood restaurant.   Encouraged by two friends who work there, I reluctantly went in and spoke to the General Manager.   Reluctant because this is one of Atlanta’s best restaurants, one at which I was a regular customer, one to which I took clients, and friends, and family.  One in which I was reluctant to work due to my own pride.  Pride of having an associate or friend see me wait tables (oh the shame, the horror!  more on my own moronic behavior later….).

Tonight, my first night of training, at one point I was setting a table and as I was arranging the napkins, forks, knives and bread plates, I muttered “I am so damn happy right about now.”  Happy to be working.  But more than that, happy to be picking up on dreams that I had let fall to the ground.

Onward.

My Vision is Clear

I’ve not been able to say that much in the last 7 or 8 months.

But something’s changed in the last couple of months.   7 or 8 weeks.   This slow advent of Spring has, as it always does, renewed something in me.  Reawakened something elemental.  Something definitely missing.   I’ve been looking for it, been expecting it. But like the proverbial pot of water, the watched-for clue never appears.

But it did today.  A day of making decisions and putting myself out there.  Of sitting and waiting.  Of being looked at and evaluated.  Of having people listen to your story.  Of telling your story.  A day of reminding myself why I chose to change my life almost exactly two years ago.

It wasn’t until I explained my day to Matthew that it became apparent what these last six months have done to me.  To my rather myopic self view, it’s been a whole lot of killing time.  A whole lot of nothing.  Of sending resumes out into the vast ether that is the internet.  Of networking with caring friends, who, at the same time, don’t understand me, my goals and what I’m all about (my bad).  Or who are too busy with their very own lives and growth and issues and insecurity, change, etc to tend to mine.   It’s been a a lot of self-doubt and questions.  Of boredom and disengagement.   The last 6 months have consisted of licking my wounds and trying to back down into to the hole from which I made a conscious decision to escape.

That ain’t gonna work.

So as I stood there explaining to Matt what I had done today, a lot about myself suddenly made sense.  And it made sense relative to the decisions I’ve made that even I’ve not quite understood.   A + some number = C.

I think that “some number” is in sight.   Not in the shimmering calm waters of the Cape but right here, under my very nose.  Right here.  At home.  So things didn’t work out in Provincetown?  So what?  Why can’t they work here?  Why can’t you swallow your fucking pride and concern and ego right here in the open instead of a thousand miles away?   You’ve made the break.  You’ve found a way to make it work.   But my friend, you’re dangerously close to indefinitely extending this malaise and quickly ruining what gave you these opportunities in the first place.     What the hell are you doing, Brown??  It’s not all that different.   More opportunities.  Better network.  Not as scenic….so what.

Enough.

Let’s move on, shall we?

Hero Worship

It’s difficult to come back to your former home, questionably successful in your venture, your quest.   It’s hard to face some stone cold realities:  financial, familial, emotional…It’s hard to shift gears again.  It’s hard to rejigger your dreams.  It’s hard to tell friends you’re leaving or that, “hey, I’m back.”  And it’s hard to look back and see the influences and the Sirens you thought were your friends, so true, honest, real and sincere.

Make no mistake, the choices I made were mine and mine alone.  I have no regrets.

What’s interesting, is that there were friends to encourage me along.  Friends who had reached the same place in their respective careers.  Friends that I loved and still do.  Friends who were smart, talented, motivated and love P-town as much or more than I.   Friends that weren’t necessarily going my way, but were jumping the proverbial ship just the same.   And then one fine Spring, we all kind of lept together.

And, as in most sea tales, there were Sirens in my story.  Those that called from afar, “come up and join us!”   “All is well!”  “It’s magical, look how well we’ve done.”  Those that listened to your dreams and encouraged them, albeit with no real backing or care.  They called from the cold comfort of the rocky shore while I sailed a rough sea.

I heard the Sirens, measured their input against my misery, watched friends take the leap, looked at my immediate situation, checked the bank account and then did it myself.

Oh, the Sirens and their call.

I can only speak for myself and my journey.   I can only say what I’ve seen, what I’ve done and what I’ve experienced.   And this tale of sirens is not all bad.   No, there were loving arms to welcome me ashore, loving arms to feed and nourish me, to introduce me and socialize me.  To recap a day, a certain success and a joy over a drink or two.   To comisserate and comfort and celebrate and advise.   To wave from the porch each quiet morning on the way to work.

But something happened.  Something transpired to which I was not a party.   I was grouped – by association and gender and history – with other conflicts.   Cut off in a non-spoken way from two friendships.  Well, from one friendship with two people, in hindsight.   It hurt.  It still does.   But I can only be mature about it.  I can’t behave the way the Sirens do.  It’s sad.  More than anything, though, it amuses me in darkest way possible.

Their childishness and the short-sightedness are comical.  The pain and thinly-veiled deceptions are not.   Dishonesty certainly is not funny.  Deliberate derailing of dreams cannot be short-sighted.  Those of us that crashed on the rocks will pull ourselves up and rebuild.  We’ll be stronger, we’ll go on.  It’s what we do.

But, as I’ve said countless times, Karma on the Cape is swift and sure.   Watch your heads, Sirens.

Tell Me ‘Bout It

Looking for a job sucks.   Plain out, old fashioned, sucks.  It’s demoralizing and degrading and ranks just this side of prostitution.

But I’ve actually had a decent time trying to find gainful employment this last month.  Today I applied for a job marketing a robotics and space exploration company.   Now, I know nothing about either, but damn, doesn’t that sound like a fun fucking job!  I mean, it really would be rocket science.

I may never get the job or even get called back, but it sure is nice to feel excited about what’s out there.

Mars, here we come!

I Started Nothing

Chohutta Wilderness, Fanin County, GA.  January 2013

The last two weeks have not been the easiest.

I came to the realization while in Birmingham over Christmas, that a decision NOT to go back to Provincetown this season was in my best interest.   For lots of reasons.   Financially, I don’t want to get “behind the 8 ball,” as it were.  I’ve been really good the last several years managing my money and a big part of that has been eliminating and staying out of debt.   Doing that, and saving a shit-ton, enabled me to change things up two years ago.  One of my greatest fears is getting strapped down by debt and financial obligations.  It’s limiting on every level of what I want to do with my life.

Then there’s the back-biting and bitterness that’s so apparent in a small town.   Unlike Season 1, I saw more than I cared to this summer.   I may be eating a bit of crow, but the dew is off the lily and I did, indeed, see behind the curtain.   I’m not sure a one-street town and it’s attentive closeness is where I want to invest several years of my life.

And the lack of year-round opportunity (hell, even people year round would be nice) is a real problem.  One industry in a one-street town does not lend itself to copious opportunity.  I’m not cut out for the still quiet of the winter months and all it portends.

But the main reason was the worry about and decreased ability of my parents to look after themselves.   They’re fine this very moment, but I can see a time in the very near future that I’ll be needed in Birmingham to help downsize their home, go through and move their stuff, take them to doctor’s appointments, etc.   When I left for Ptown in 2011, the feeling was 5-7 years.   I’m thinking more like 2-3.   So, I made a tough call, to change gears and continue things here in Atlanta.

What’s been hard has been telling those on the Cape that mean so much to me:  Brad & Joel, Chef II, Devon, Robert.   And it’s been hard to tell people here that I’m “back for good.”  The perception of failure seems to be so easily achieved.   But I don’t consider it failure at all.  To be cliche’, it’s a journey, one I undertook and continue on my own choice.   For once in my life, the choices I’ve made in the past two years are mine and mine alone.   It’s daunting, troubling, anxiety-causing and stressful, but at the same time, the responsibility for myself is extremely freeing.

Now if I can just remember these words, especially around 3:30am, all will go well!   I need to enjoy the trees and embrace the big forest that’s out there.

Onward.

Candy Everybody Wants

Sorry for the delay….I been busy doing nothin’.

So here’s a recap, to catch you up:

*  I left Provincetown on December 9 and headed South.   To be honest, the voices inside my head were becoming deafening and the lack of activity combined with the slow drain on my bank account made it an easy departure.  On a couple levels, I’m glad I stuck around two extra months:  I finished my restaurant business plan.  It’s totally buttoned-up and will work whenever and wherever I need it to.  Living in the Cottage with Chef II was a great experience, our friendship growing exponentially.   She’s a gem and I see great things in our future.   But Ptown off-season is not for me — No M’am!   I now know that and can adjust accordingly.   It’s too quiet, too small, too dark and too, well….dead.   I need people around, things to do, places to go…you get the picture.

* My trip was easy and uneventful.  I spent two great days in Princeton with Teeter.   She’s always good for what ails me and sets the perspective nicely.  She too is going through some transition so I think my visit did her some good as well.   I spent the last night in DC with Lilly Belle and Jeff, dear friends from Auburn.   They’re stationed in Washington for a hot minute and it was great to catch up.   Leigh is another one that is good for my head…

* I rolled into Atlanta at rush hour on a Wednesday….Ugh, I had somehow forgotten what a nightmare that is.   I don’t think there are as many cars on all of Cape Cod as I saw on I-85 in Gwinnett County.   It took me an hour to make my way to East Atlanta…

*  …where I’ve been living with Matt and Stephen very comfortably and easily.   They’re gems and have opened up their home to me without hesitation or conflict.  It’s a bit tight but I like the routine.  They’ve made coming and going easy and I’m glad to pitch in with housework and such.   Cooking has been a joy.

*  My trip to Birmingham for Christmas as a tough one, to be honest.   I was not prepared for the change in my parents….mostly in my Dad’s attitude on aging but generally in how much slower their days are.   They’re still 100% self-sufficient, but I can see that that will not last too much longer.  Dad and I had some good conversations about their futures and I listened to him as he bemoaned his arthritic hips and Mom’s memory lapses.   But at 80, they’re remarkable.  My sister still teeters on being a burden to them.  I think she doesn’t realize that they may not be capable of any kind of emotional or physical or financial care she may require.   Oy, it’s a bit bleak, the Brown family situation…

* BUT, we threw one hell of a 80th birthday party for my Mother last weekend!  Funny what a party can do for folks’ mid-winter blues.   I catered, cooking and hosting 35 of their closest friends.  It was a joy and came off flawlessly.   I’d say it was my best gig ever.

* On the Social Front, it’s been busy.  I’ve pretty much caught back up with everyone, save a couple of people.   I spent an amazing day with Pattie collecting food for her community food bank; have had beers at Moe’s and Joe’s more than once; picked right back up with Beth; noshed with EriK at our favorite haunts and picked the brains of several old, not-seen-in-a-while friends.  All good.

And there you have it, in a nutshell.   There’s more, but I’ll get to that in time.

Five Fathoms

My “winter” roommate is Chef II, for those of you following closely.   Gentle, kind, funny and restrained, our friendship over the past 18 months has been quick, easy and balanced.  She stands her ground professionally and is fair in the negotiations of friendship.   I was never nervous or anxious about sharing the cottage; it kind of just happened and it’s been lovely.

Two Saturdays ago was my last in town for the Winter.   Julia and I struck out on a gray, cold Friday for the tidal flats on the West End in search of oysters.   We were two of about two dozen people total out that morning, most of the others digging for clams.  We picked oysters and mussels off the Breakwater rocks and out of the sand.   4 dozen later, we trudged our way back to the car and home.  We gave half the catch to friends and set ours outside in the cold shade.

The next day, I pulled the bag of oysters off the back porch.   Chef made cocktail sauce and I, mignonette.   I shucked the bivalves in batches and Julia opened beers.   We talked and listened to music, texted friends and savored the fresh, oh-so-slight brine of the cold, slimy creatures, slurping them down easily.   Our locally found feast lasted a good hour.   It was heaven.

Naps followed.  The sun set.   Contentment reigned.