Switch Up

Our nanny decided to take off without any notice last week. Take off as in “quit.” That little B*#ch! I have bent over backwards for this woman to make sure her job was cush. We insured her job after acquiring legal citizenship to go back to Columbia for three months. Three effen months! In the corporate world, three months off meant get another job jocko! She had free reign to our home. Whatever she wanted. She had all the smoked trout to feed Alaska’s wildlife. Mostly, she had the easiest child to care for. By word of mouth, Hunter is a very low maintenance easy going child. Knock on wood. Such is life. Onward and upward, I say to myself.

After shaking my fist up to the nanny gods, I was fine. My main mantra in life is, “Things happen for a reason so deal.” Instead of crying into my no nanny fondue, I began to scour the endless craigslist ads for a spanish speaking nanny. As a side note, the nanny career is lucrative aka rip off. I was on the prowl for a bargain! I phoned the prominent day cares in near proximity, but was struck down by the year and a half waiting list, according to my calculations I had half a year to go. After hitting a few bumps of stress breakdowns on my lunch and yelling at my husband on the phone, I was done. “Shellie,” I said to myself, “Get yourself together!” I made contact with a family that just moved into the neighborhood and we were meeting with them for a coffee play date tomorrow for a possible nanny share. In addition, I had an appointment with a daycare on Sunday that seemed promising. My chest didn’t feel so heavy at the end of the day.

The Kitchens had to work fast. Fortunately, my husband had two weeks between projects, which meant that he could step in to relieve the pressure. As I thought we were free from worry, he had meetings all week with potential clients. Fate was working against the grain. After a long day of innocuous leisure, Sunday I awoke with a touch of a hangover. I made way to the gym to exert my stress and sit in the steam room for a little rest and relaxation. We made it to the daycare in Sunnyside/Glen Park and did a walk through of the facilities. As I walked through the daycare, the tension in my shoulders slowly softened. I had a good feeling about this spot. It was perfect! The backyard was kickin’ with a playground fit for kid! The residing street parking was free from residential and hourly restraints. It was a ten minute walk from the Glen Park Bart Station which means muni can kiss my caboose “ciao”! To make things brighter, we would save twelve thousand a year. We were in the clear.

I am convinced that things happen for a reason. There is nothing more useless than living in the past and using it as a crutch. I may be bruised and emotionally exhausted, I always thrive in changes. Like my lovely nine siblings always say, “Shellie your like the dinosaurs you will survive anything.” Growing up I hated that saying, but today I am proud to have self strength. I wouldn’t want to walk in shadows during my existence unmoved by change. Banal.

Monday rolled in and I dropped Hunter off at his new day care. The fellow toddlers looked in awe as Hunter was seated for his oatmeal breakfast in the kitchen. I run on intuition and it was all good. I kissed him good bye and closed the door behind me. Today is a good day. Viva la Vida!

This is Shellie throwing a penny in a wishing well back to you Bob at the studio!

Cultivate

Looking back, a lot of my childhood encompassed our acre large garden and live stock. Dad made two hundred dollars a month for a family of ten, thus our garden was our source of survival. Back then, the garden and all that set root was my core enemy. It intervened in my playtime especially in the summer when school was out, all I ever heard was, “it’s time to go to the garden.” When school was in session all I heard was, "remember come home straight from school you have to go to the garden." I blistered in the sun toiling with these darn fruits and vegetables while my friends chased each other down the block and through the fields. Saturdays the main artery to my loathing, my morning cartoon session was cut short. As a kid, all I lived for was running rampant with the neighborhood kids till nightfall. I cursed our garden. I spit on our farm life. I swore to never speak of such things out loud.

Twenty years later, the slow food movement makes an up rise from Europe to America. No thanks to the pioneer frontiersman Alice Waters for making it all happen. I skipped the Ferry Building Farmer's Market on Saturday, and hit the Alameda Farmer's Market instead. After strolling through the Alameda Farmer's Market I left with a few pots of chili peppers, English and french thyme, basil, tarragon, rosemary, thyme, cilantro, parsley, cherry box tomatoes and arugula all under the cheap fare of $20. Shane shook his head as he has grown accustom to my compulsive projects that has a life span of a week. I, Madam Black Thumb, decided to face my farce of gardening and prove to myself that I could see a project to the end.

I was excited. I could sense victory on my horizon. Besides, herbs in my meals have become a staple in my cooking in the past four years. Conveniently, plucking it from the backyard would be sensational. Mom and Dad would choke on a chicken bone, if they witnessed my soil attempt. Me, the serial cactus strangler, is moving out of my circle. I plugged in my ipod speaker system and let Thelonious Sphere Monk tap on those keys in all that is jazz. I dusted off my gardening kit from our Clayton Street home, and I made way into the backyard. “This is the first time you’ve spent time back here, since we moved in.” my husband heckled, “you sure you know what your doing? Remember you have to plant the basil next to the tomatoes for it to grow well.” Suddenly, my husband King Horticulture repeated his sister’s advice to a healthy basil life in San Francisco. I removed the herbs from their temporary pots and replanted them in the new soil. I felt a sense of exuberance with the notion that the life of these plants relied on my sensitive care.

The very next morning I lightly sprayed some water to quench the soil. I talked to the plants as I would a friend. I recall my fifth grade teacher, Ms. Ito, mentioning an article on classical music and plants and how they thrived successfully. Pregnant moms play classical music for their babies in their bellies all the time so why would this be any more queer. Two weeks later, my garden is abounding with life. I made an arugula salad topped with fresh cherry box tomatoes and rosemary chicken topped with a garlic tarragon and parsley butter.

I am glad that the slow food movement is slowly entering the general public. As living off the land goes way back in history and it is nothing new. The world today is moving too fast and too large with no respect for patience. As I enjoy a beautiful fresh meal, I have come to understand the satisfaction and accomplishment of my parents’ meals and the importance of finishing everything off our plates. My parents worked hard to feed their family. I hope that my children will appreciate the importance and find the beauty in life.

This is Shellie pleading, "plant love not war" back to you Bob at the studio!

The Trinity Strikes Again.

“I sense something. A presence I've not felt since...”

-D. Vader

Habitual

Lately, Hunter’s been developing habits that is standard to baby dome. The little menace is a wily little one. His exclusive bad habit, the numero ex factor uno is sitting a foot away from Chloe’s water bowl waiting for our lame discipline tactic, “Hunter do not touch that,” I lower my voice hoping it will set the tone for an ass whooping, “Hunter don’t you dare!” He turns around sparks his angelic smile and wade his hands in Chloe’s water bowl and laughs. I’ve gone so low as slapped his hands followed with, “bad, bad, bad.” Handling Hunter as one would a canine, my light slapping making him explode into laughter. My first experience in many where my child will find my parenting skill set laughable. I am relieved to know that he found humor in my chore. Needless to say Chloe’s meal time is not as convenient as it used to be.

Onto bad habit numero dos the let down. The let down is his relentless need to be picked up only to be put down. This little worm nuts refuses to be held. As Hunter wants nothing to do with cradling, my devil spawn demands intensive crawling time. His play room is fortified with berserk capacity, instead he dismisses the play room for the outskirts of the unknown. He, with great peril, delves into everything that is dangerous and off limits. Lately, he’s found an attraction to the kitchen. He switches all the gas range knobs to off which makes cooking difficult, than making his way to the book shelf to ‘cause more havoc. As soon as someone opens the refrigerator door, he darts for the opportunity to get in the cold box. Regardless of the generous size of his play room, Hunter is not aware of the parameters.

Now for the bad habit, the mucho gusto of them all, numero tres. Stairs. That’s right the harmless series of flights that get one to another level. Our little menace sent me into instant shock therapy, the unfortunate Wednesday morning that curdled my blood to tears. As I brushed my teeth I heard him faint and distant, instantly with great mommy instinct I bolted past the unlocked gate to the second floor. There he was in our bedroom a foot away from the open glass sliding door to the open face balcony overlooking our backyard. I thanked my lucky stars, and cursed and hobbled my husband for his negligence. Hunter’s newfound mobility has me on edge. The experiences are a few, but it’s enough to put me in a mental hospital.

As many women are in love with the notion of being a mother, like accessorizing their life with an exquisite Valentino or a pair of Chloe's. Thus fashion has it's seasons, and so do children. Having a child is magnificent, but brace yourself for a turbulent, yet beautiful experience. It’s a blast! I’m a little beat, but my philosophy to “free style” has gotten me through bruised and harmed. Besides the lack of sleeping in, I venture where my little man takes me. It keeps me on my toes. Life would be boring otherwise.

This is Shellie exclaiming, “boys kick girls asses any day” back to you Bob at the studio!

Heart Attack

I dreaded this day the moment I signed her on as nanny. Perhaps, for a second, fate would over look my misfortunes and decide to give me a break. Fate, unpredictably, decided to switch it up and bitch slap me a couple good ones.

I frantically unlocked the front door. I couldn’t wait to hold him in my arms and cover him with kisses. There he sat enthralled with his Tonka truck wheels, “Hi loves!” I screamed with arms out ready to wrap him in my sweetness, “come here sweets.” Instead he turned and made a bee line for Mary. As soon as he got to her feet, he tugged her slacks a sign to save him from that strange person, “no that’s your mommy,” she gently scooted him away into my direction. A hair fracture cracked my heart. My ego was afoot slumming it. What did I expect? She was there from eight o’clock to six o’clock. She had ten hours on me. According to my calculations she's kicking my ass by 50 hours a week. Hell on a popsicle stick, I couldn't beat that one down with a stick. My swollen heart how it grows heavy in my chest. I thought I had armored myself heavy for the battle, yet I am slain with emotions.

I’ve been quite sullen with this brash reality. I made the decision when I returned to the work force. I would be risking his unfamiliarity to me, his mother and biggest fan. Nanny and son have a special bond that only leaves me to make up for los time during the evenings, mornings, and weekends. To make matters worse, they even have a language that casts me further from the inner circle. Now, I have to jump in the fast lane and learn spanish on the fly. Cruel.

As I spotlight the downside, I know am not alone in this dark space. I am just one in millions that do not have the luxury to stay home. I know there's worse things in the world, but god damn. As I am witness and victim to this catastrophe, all I can do is smother him with motherly goodness when time permits It is a constant war between quantity vs. quality. It is more often than never that I gently pluck him from his crib, even for just for a second, to hold him in my arms while he slumbers. In the end, there's no winner. All the time in the world is never enough as time escapes with my son on his wings and a little of my happiness with it.

This is Shellie requiring heart surgery back to you Bob at the studio!

Friends are Fashionable

Getting all the girls together for a night out is like building a sand castle in the sky. Plan B: gather as many skirts together to see the movie. My skirt gang consisted of Jeeun, Angela, and Aussy, five weeks from babyville. As we cleverly decided “not” to make reservations on a Saturday night, we were faced with a 45 minute wait an hour and a half out from the movie. As Aussy is not privy to the power of her pregnancy, I advised that she stop concealing her roundness so we could play the pregnant card with the host. If carefully planned we could have the whole world eating out of her hands. Instead, we darted for a couple leaving their section at the bar, making sure any rivals that dared to swoop would have to go up against a wobbling woman that was starving for two. Twenty minutes and a frustrated server later, we were out the door to stand in line with our fellow skirts.

San Francisco was unlike any other metropolis as we were outnumbered 3-to-1 by gay men. Worse, they were dressed better. Gay men were, by code, snide little bitches. They had a way of making women feel fashionably inept, if appropriate, by a mere huff and sway of their manly hips. I didn’t receive such a stare, but they weren’t discreet with others.

“Man there’s a ton of guys here,” Aussy forgetting she resides in the city of sausage, “Why is that?”
“They’re gay Auss.” Angela and I chimed in synchronized response.
“Oh, but they’re so many of them?” The little one sucked the life from Aussy's rational cells.

“Cheers!” Jeeun and I clanked our paper cups filled with pedestrian espresso. To the left, a gaggle of amateur skirts sipped their plastic cups of soda inconspicuously filled with cosmopolitans. Judging by there behavior, they were straight from the burbs. A bag of buttered popcorn in hand and a big bottle of water, I couldn’t wait for the lights to dim. In the meantime, Jeeun aka Text Master 500 proceeded to configure my device for instant messenger feature. Her fingers triggered at lightening speed putting the coordinates together. Before I knew it, Text Master 500 had blackberry messenger up in a flash. As everyone knows, I have dodged the cell phone phenomena for years. I disliked the fact that I could be accessible by another's whim. Until one day my husband, unfortunately born with the terrible worry gene, bought me my first death phone, How does one dodge texting? Perhaps, cut off my fingers?

As the first two beats of the theme song started, the girlish screams from skirts and slacks alike filled Audotorium 7. The opening credit sequence gave way to an explosion of Manhattan street sophistication. The movie was a definite feel-good hosed with product placement. If you’re a fashion moron like me, "Sex and the City" proved to be no less than orgasmic. Proven horrid was the big labels that demanded the film. The best thing about the show was Bradshaw's wash up of dime store outfits.

As the show has proven it's influence, be certain that skirts around the world are scouring for a pair of Dior gladiators. I am guilty as charged.

Speaking of sex, it was pretty bare in comparison to the series. "Sex and the City" has delivered -as promised- a decent skirt flick perfectly predictable, but it was no "Steel Magnolia."

This evening has proven to be no more than absolute fun. I don’t get out much to the big screen much less with my skirtfriends. As I sat there laughing and smiling, I grew nostalgic for my fellow missing skirts. In my ever shifting life furnished with loving husband and son, and a social life that needs a proper tuning, I wonder if there will ever be a time where a date with all my skirts will be more often than a baby shower.

This is Shellie discovering that Pâte à Choux is not a fashion designer back to you Bob at the studio.

Appreciation of Art

From one o’clock to the beautiful chimes of midnight, I was on my feet; on the run. As soon as I disrobed into that drab chef's jacket and apron, like a cat being declawed, I was defeminized of all that was girl. The fellow cooks greeted me with light and friendly perverse gestures. The only girl on the line, I was accustomed to the austere filth that was a man’s mouth and mind. If I didn't have seven brothers, I might find some offense to their remarks instead of humor.

A restaurant line consists of stations. A standard restaurant line would entail cold appetizer, hot appetizers, sides, meats, and desserts. Each cook is responsible (and accountible) for their station. In my case, I have proven my worth by slaving my way three notches up the line. Regardless of the station, it was all the same, my mise en place (fancy word for ingredients) and all reinforcements best be ready by service. When the stations are orchestrated correctly, like witnessing all the dishes come together like Mozart’s Concerto No. 10 in E-flat Major.

I was on the "side" station which worked very closely with the meat. It was my first time working on a flat top, friend and foe, which was like staring the sun blatantly in the face. A flat top is so scorching hot that it cured my hangovers almost immediately through sweating. Instamatically, my body was quenched with sweat within the first fifteen minutes of exposure. Shrug, I was conveniently rewarded with twelve percent body fat. For the next twelve hours, I was imprisoned in a heat box fit for roasting pigs. Stage name: Sweat Master.

As I fervently prepare my station, all cooks will tell you the same thing, there is never enough time to get your station ready. Never. There's a gradual under tow of anxiety that strengthens as seconds sprint by, but I always found time for a smoke break. The key to a finished station is "passion." If you don’t have it, than all you have is half ass shit. There are two kinds of cooks in the kitchen: the one that has the "love" and "patience" always on the move for improvement and the one that is covering his ass just so he could make it through service. I found myself somewhere in the middle as I could always use improvement in my time management.

Chefs, where do I start. Chefs are the maestro and composer to all that is the menu. Chefs have a love and hate relationship with perfection, it is never good enough. Chefs demand absolute respect. Chefs come equipped with tempers triggered by expectations. I’ve seen it so many times before service, middle of service, after service. Dodge, to avoid that Misono from your shoulder blade. At the same time, compliments were medals of valor and was worn with pride.

Line work is by the very definition 'harsh'. It’s degrading. Cooking in an open kitchen, watching “foodies” strutting their food network prowess, unaware of the components that contributed to the dishes set forth. Do they appreciate the medley of vegetables that are perfectly sliced in brunoise fashion? Do they taste the symphony of salty, sweet, heat, acidity? Do they know the labor intensive process to produce that streak of reduction? And just like that, the art is gone in one swallow followed with a sip of wine that complements the flavor.

Today my biggest life irritants could easily be resolved by one splurge. Fine dining. There's a still vacany, if I do not splurge one night a week. Unlike the usual San Francisco foodie, I appreciate a fine meal. I am privy to the labor and love it entailed to produce such excellence. Especially when a server sets a dish before me I can’t help but admire the plating and the accompanying aroma. I’ve been known to buy the line, each a shot of patron for a superb meal.

I have retired my chef's jacket years ago. Although my short stint in the industry was just a spit in the span of my life, but it was an experience unforgotten. I was a runt amongst cooks striving for the success of chef some of them hailing from the likes of Bouley, Jean-Georges, Wylie Dufresne, DiSpirito, and Bottali. I was humble and I held my own under their guidance.

Gone are the days of twelve hour shifts of cussing, constant sexual harassment, cigarettes, cussing, cooking, cigarettes, burns, cussing, cussing, cigarettes, midnight happy hour, and more cigarettes. I miss the hurly burly of cooking in a restaurant. I miss the challenge it put forth and the glory at the end of service. I miss the company of cooks in all their haute ego and modesty. I have learned that simplicity is complex. I have come to understand the complexities of the never ending creation and master to the art. Instead, I embelish my quiet nights to the likes of "Top Chef" or "No Reservations."

Time to time, I'll receive emails from my old cronies. Some opened their own shop, meanwhile others to French Laundry, Cru, and El Bulli. I am fortunate to know that there was a time in my life that I rubbed elbows with greatness.

This is Shellie breaking my sauce back to you Bob at the studio.