Monday, May 14, 2012
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Accomplishment
Today
was a rare day of Accomplishment!
I learned how to string a guitar,
and restrung all 6 strings of my cheap but lovable guitar.
I learned how to disassemble a window--
a complex mechanism; I can't imagine how it was ever invented--
and finally threw that mattress that's been sitting in our hallway for 10 months
out my bedroom window.
Down it tumbled.
It was such a herculean feat!
I felt heroic; my hands and hair felt grimy as hell.
The weather was bellissimo.
was a rare day of Accomplishment!
I learned how to string a guitar,
and restrung all 6 strings of my cheap but lovable guitar.
I learned how to disassemble a window--
a complex mechanism; I can't imagine how it was ever invented--
and finally threw that mattress that's been sitting in our hallway for 10 months
out my bedroom window.
Down it tumbled.
It was such a herculean feat!
I felt heroic; my hands and hair felt grimy as hell.
The weather was bellissimo.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
A Study of Ties
Today was the winningest day at City Hall cafe, where I study men's ties.
I noticed many interesting ties-- one with rows of townhouses in gold, silver and bronze thread that reminded the wearer of his old home in Philadelphia, around 20th and Catherine Streets. A beautiful, fancy cornflower blue paisley tie stood out among several paisley prints. I love the slender knit ties. A few men admitted that they had not even noticed the tie-- that their wives had bought it for them. Yesterday at Rittenhouse cafe was a winning day for ties: my top two favorite were the ballerina print and the one with tiny yellow butterflies.
Have you ever read Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time? There is a tramp who comes into the house one night during a thunderstorm, dressed in "borrowed" bedsheets. Later, she transforms into an ethereal, unearthly creature and is called Mrs. Whatsit. Today at City Hall cafe, a woman came up to the bar who struck me as very Mrs. Whatsit-like. She had a crazy scarf around her neck, flamboyant blue and white cat-eye glasses, a random blue tuft in her dark crop. Nothing matched except for all the blue. I had not the gall to tell her about her likeness because she might take offense, so I could only ask her,
"Have you ever read Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time?"
She had, of course.
After work, on the walk home, a little girl about two feet tall skipped by with her mother. I did a double-take to make certain of what I had just seen: she was wearing a white dress printed with all manner of moustaches. It was the essence of cute and creepy. What a day for prints and patterns!
Tip averages are growing.
The sense of camaraderie is growing.
Pride and care flowed in abundance. Ben and I, we worked the line with everything we had.
That's why today was the winningest day at City Hall cafe. Winningest is more winning than Most Winning.
I noticed many interesting ties-- one with rows of townhouses in gold, silver and bronze thread that reminded the wearer of his old home in Philadelphia, around 20th and Catherine Streets. A beautiful, fancy cornflower blue paisley tie stood out among several paisley prints. I love the slender knit ties. A few men admitted that they had not even noticed the tie-- that their wives had bought it for them. Yesterday at Rittenhouse cafe was a winning day for ties: my top two favorite were the ballerina print and the one with tiny yellow butterflies.
Have you ever read Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time? There is a tramp who comes into the house one night during a thunderstorm, dressed in "borrowed" bedsheets. Later, she transforms into an ethereal, unearthly creature and is called Mrs. Whatsit. Today at City Hall cafe, a woman came up to the bar who struck me as very Mrs. Whatsit-like. She had a crazy scarf around her neck, flamboyant blue and white cat-eye glasses, a random blue tuft in her dark crop. Nothing matched except for all the blue. I had not the gall to tell her about her likeness because she might take offense, so I could only ask her,
"Have you ever read Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time?"
She had, of course.
After work, on the walk home, a little girl about two feet tall skipped by with her mother. I did a double-take to make certain of what I had just seen: she was wearing a white dress printed with all manner of moustaches. It was the essence of cute and creepy. What a day for prints and patterns!
Tip averages are growing.
The sense of camaraderie is growing.
Pride and care flowed in abundance. Ben and I, we worked the line with everything we had.
That's why today was the winningest day at City Hall cafe. Winningest is more winning than Most Winning.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Moon on My Mind
Tonight, the moon hangs bright and full
So serene in its vantage point
Undisturbed by the size and scope
of it all
Mona Lisa of the skies
Witness to our cries and sighs
Speaks volumes in rotund silence
of the ages
So serene in its vantage point
Undisturbed by the size and scope
of it all
Mona Lisa of the skies
Witness to our cries and sighs
Speaks volumes in rotund silence
of the ages
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
A slow opening at the City Hall cafe gave me a chance to sit for a few minutes with one of my customers and write up some Valentine cards. Valentine's Day suddenly becomes really fun when you've stumbled upon really beautiful vintage cards that were designed nearly a century ago. Never mind that I had no one in mind to give them to at the time of purchase.
"Love heels", one of the cards was entitled-- the one that was cut into the shape of a ladies high heel shoe--, but love also wounds. Take that. I've been classically unlucky in love so far. I could go out of my way and actually try to find someone special, but I don't have the heart to put in such effort presently-- whether this lack of motivation stems from suspicion, defensiveness, fear, or some other deep, dark psychoanalytic well,...it is what it is. I will stumble upon the various threads of my fate just as I stumbled upon these beautiful cards.
And just as I purchased these ephemera greeting cards with no particular receiver in mind, I also purchased a bottle of sparkling cider with no one in mind to drink it with. I bought the cider because I tasted a sample of it at the grocery, and as it fizzled down my throat, it threw me back to summer days, to warmth and tranquility. And so I threw down 10% of my day's tips and purchased a bottle of this liquid summer, which now sits in my fridge awaiting to relieve a soul parched by a long winter.
"Love heels", one of the cards was entitled-- the one that was cut into the shape of a ladies high heel shoe--, but love also wounds. Take that. I've been classically unlucky in love so far. I could go out of my way and actually try to find someone special, but I don't have the heart to put in such effort presently-- whether this lack of motivation stems from suspicion, defensiveness, fear, or some other deep, dark psychoanalytic well,...it is what it is. I will stumble upon the various threads of my fate just as I stumbled upon these beautiful cards.
And just as I purchased these ephemera greeting cards with no particular receiver in mind, I also purchased a bottle of sparkling cider with no one in mind to drink it with. I bought the cider because I tasted a sample of it at the grocery, and as it fizzled down my throat, it threw me back to summer days, to warmth and tranquility. And so I threw down 10% of my day's tips and purchased a bottle of this liquid summer, which now sits in my fridge awaiting to relieve a soul parched by a long winter.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
Stats: Today, my coworker and I served more than 500 drip coffees in 6 hours. Including espresso drinks, this means we saw more than 100 faces per hour. That's a lot of faces! That's more than 100 "Hello how are you"'s per hour. That's about 50 "Happy Groundhog Day"'s per hour and 25 mentions of Bill Murray per hour. You're welcome, Bill Murray. And Happy Groundhog Day, everyone.
The irony: Today, I feel like retreating from humanity. Sometimes, it seems there is entirely too much cattiness and judgmental attitudes in every corner of my world, and it makes me want to eschew humanity. Yet, today I have also encountered kindness, funniness, and empathy from many (many!) folks, and these positive encounters are usually enough to draw me back into the fold. However today, I am feeling rather misanthropic. On the other hand, I had some really beautiful encounters...I go back and forth. The past few days have been tough on my psyche...I feel bruised and battered-- yet healing-- yet still sensitive.
The past two days have been unnaturally beautiful. The sudden spring air in the midst of winter has awakened my spirit, which feels like it has been in hibernation for many months. I brought my camera out of hibernation and followed the light. Beautiful flowers, beautiful building walls, beautiful streets and beautiful throngs of people and the homeless...one of my favorite streets in Philadelphia is along Juniper, between Sansom and Chestnut Streets: old walls that attest to a more refined, ornate past; on the wall upon entering, a poignant quotation by some philosopher or another about how knowing that there is an end is what gives the present its meaning. At the end of the walk, upon the sewer giving off heat lies a homeless man wrapped up in his anorak. I see him in this very spot every single morning that I walk through this alley on the way to work. He has made himself a home-- that is, if "home" is defined by the place where you sleep every night. He has become a meaningful node in my line of vision-- something that I look for as I wend my way through the streets of Philadelphia in the twilight hour.
Yesterday evening, I gave myself a ballet class in a glass-enclosed space in the exact middle of the city; that is to say, at the cafe. This is one of the most magical, spiritual experience that I can offer to myself in the city. During the day, it is the place where I make money; it is alive with people and lights and conversation and coffee. But at night, after around 7:30pm, I unlock the glass door and let myself into a shadowy haven that is both secret and utterly revealing. I turn on two lights-- the track lights hanging over the large family table and the one in the back kitchen. The bathroom is my dressing room. After I change, I plug in my ipod; slow adagio music fills the air. I begin by facing the burr grinders filled with Nizza and Haitian beans. Slow tendus, the way I was taught during my 12 days in Russia. To this day, I still hear Ilya's slow, methodical counts: Raz, dva, tri, chetyre; raz, dva, tri, chetyre; raz, dva, tri, chetyre; plie...
From there, I sink into plies and the rest of the essential barre exercises, then center work. I use my reflection in the glass to correct my form. Outside, groups of people walk by. A few peer in; most pass by unaware of any activity on the other side of the glass. Cars whizz by around the bend; lights shine from the cars, street lamps, and surrounding office buildings; voices carry past the glass. I ponder briefly the things we would discover should all walls be made with transparent glass. What goes on behind those walls? Here, at the cafe, my activity is made utterly transparent. It is full of dichotomy: I feel naked, yet hidden; amongst people, yet alone. I am surrounded by people, yet I feel sheltered by the glass the keeps me at an impenetrable distance from them, no matter how transparent they may be. For those who catch sight of movement and peer in for a closer look, I welcome them into the world of ballet as I see it, as I love it: the repetition, the rigor, the sweat, the discipline-- the ritual of ballet class.
The irony: Today, I feel like retreating from humanity. Sometimes, it seems there is entirely too much cattiness and judgmental attitudes in every corner of my world, and it makes me want to eschew humanity. Yet, today I have also encountered kindness, funniness, and empathy from many (many!) folks, and these positive encounters are usually enough to draw me back into the fold. However today, I am feeling rather misanthropic. On the other hand, I had some really beautiful encounters...I go back and forth. The past few days have been tough on my psyche...I feel bruised and battered-- yet healing-- yet still sensitive.
The past two days have been unnaturally beautiful. The sudden spring air in the midst of winter has awakened my spirit, which feels like it has been in hibernation for many months. I brought my camera out of hibernation and followed the light. Beautiful flowers, beautiful building walls, beautiful streets and beautiful throngs of people and the homeless...one of my favorite streets in Philadelphia is along Juniper, between Sansom and Chestnut Streets: old walls that attest to a more refined, ornate past; on the wall upon entering, a poignant quotation by some philosopher or another about how knowing that there is an end is what gives the present its meaning. At the end of the walk, upon the sewer giving off heat lies a homeless man wrapped up in his anorak. I see him in this very spot every single morning that I walk through this alley on the way to work. He has made himself a home-- that is, if "home" is defined by the place where you sleep every night. He has become a meaningful node in my line of vision-- something that I look for as I wend my way through the streets of Philadelphia in the twilight hour.
Yesterday evening, I gave myself a ballet class in a glass-enclosed space in the exact middle of the city; that is to say, at the cafe. This is one of the most magical, spiritual experience that I can offer to myself in the city. During the day, it is the place where I make money; it is alive with people and lights and conversation and coffee. But at night, after around 7:30pm, I unlock the glass door and let myself into a shadowy haven that is both secret and utterly revealing. I turn on two lights-- the track lights hanging over the large family table and the one in the back kitchen. The bathroom is my dressing room. After I change, I plug in my ipod; slow adagio music fills the air. I begin by facing the burr grinders filled with Nizza and Haitian beans. Slow tendus, the way I was taught during my 12 days in Russia. To this day, I still hear Ilya's slow, methodical counts: Raz, dva, tri, chetyre; raz, dva, tri, chetyre; raz, dva, tri, chetyre; plie...
From there, I sink into plies and the rest of the essential barre exercises, then center work. I use my reflection in the glass to correct my form. Outside, groups of people walk by. A few peer in; most pass by unaware of any activity on the other side of the glass. Cars whizz by around the bend; lights shine from the cars, street lamps, and surrounding office buildings; voices carry past the glass. I ponder briefly the things we would discover should all walls be made with transparent glass. What goes on behind those walls? Here, at the cafe, my activity is made utterly transparent. It is full of dichotomy: I feel naked, yet hidden; amongst people, yet alone. I am surrounded by people, yet I feel sheltered by the glass the keeps me at an impenetrable distance from them, no matter how transparent they may be. For those who catch sight of movement and peer in for a closer look, I welcome them into the world of ballet as I see it, as I love it: the repetition, the rigor, the sweat, the discipline-- the ritual of ballet class.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Friday afternoon, 1/20/12: First Cupping
-that is, coffee cupping...location: the Warehouse
-pregame with Primo hoagies
-first, a taste of Pure Black, sweetened and once-pressed: top taste is undesirable; bottom taste is wonderfully grainy and all coffee; sugar is consistent from top to bottom; SN likes a punch in the face
-the demise of Robinson, our Haitian coffee ambassador: mob politics with reactionary, old men; we will dig deep into Haiti
-Beasts Ride Bicycles: A children's book ft. Bird Rider & Robusta Dude
-pizza: Naples vs Rome; semolina vs no semolina; chef vs. the 8th generation Russian pizza connoisseur
-where was the coffee spoon? (a) not a coffee spoon-- a drug spoon (b) in Serge's tool box; (c) not a drug spoon-- a pooper scooper; (d) Bryan stole it to clean up after his new dog (e) Bryan has Flyers tickets
-pods: ever-widening screens from 54 to 58mm in diameter; they are evolving, and so must we; new packaging-- silver and sleek
-redefining "direct trade": buying directly from the children who stick the parchment around each bean
The cupping itself was a neat experience. Elliotte, Ben and I-- three baristas who had never been to such an event-- sat side by side on the bench across the table from JP, while he stood like an eccentric professor, waving around his hands until one of his unusually thick fingers got sliced by his own Pure Black twist-off cap and began bleeding profusely. As casual as his manner was, he had the air of knowledge about him as he spoke. He was in his element, talking about a subject that he had spent hundreds of thousands of hours of his life thinking about, studying, breathing, creating, tasting, drinking, dreaming and doing. Eventually, most of the office staff drifted in and joined the meeting, hanging around the perimeter of the gorgeous wooden conference table, but not quite sitting at it. Even Tobin, the accountant, popped his head in for a brief moment to say hello.
After the cupping of the first Panamanian bean, the cups-- rounded, white bowl types-- were washed, redosed with the second El Salvadorian beans, refilled with boiling water, and re-aligned in a straight line down the long bench table. We steeped and slurped. The surprise was that, as light as the El Sal was roasted (lighter than the Panamanian bean), it was much more pleasantly citrus-y and smooth than the sharply acidic Panamanian bean. Part of the reason for this seemingly paradoxical result may have been the inconsistent grind level of the two beans. JP suggested a darker roast for the sharply acidic Panamanian bean; Chris, the roaster, disagreed with an immediacy and certainty that impressed me.
We fell into discussions with our neighbors. From the right side of the room, I caught a tip from Chris: slurp a spoonful of the Panamanian, let it sit in your mouth, and the orange-iness will hit you like a bus. It hit me suddenly that "citrusy" did not necessarily entail "acidic". From the left side of the room, Patrick sat at the end of the table with a ph meter dipped into his cup of coffee, as focused as a doctor listening in on his stethoscope to the beating of a heart. He listed the following acidity levels for the sake of comparison: stomach juice-- 1; lemon juice-- 2 to 3; Panama-- 5.28; El Salvador-- ? A point emphasized and re-emphasized by the chef of the house was that the beans for the cupping were roasted lightly enough to expose the faults of the bean, but also dark enough to expose the beauty of the bean. He dipped his hand into the pile of roasted beans, lifted and let them run through his fingers as he spoke of their beauty.
Afterward, I, along with Ben and Patrick hopped in for a ride back with Ell (the other El), who dropped us off at our respective homes. We found ourselves driving into Headhouse Square. What a beautiful place at dusk. Hoagies for dinner.
-pregame with Primo hoagies
-first, a taste of Pure Black, sweetened and once-pressed: top taste is undesirable; bottom taste is wonderfully grainy and all coffee; sugar is consistent from top to bottom; SN likes a punch in the face
-the demise of Robinson, our Haitian coffee ambassador: mob politics with reactionary, old men; we will dig deep into Haiti
-Beasts Ride Bicycles: A children's book ft. Bird Rider & Robusta Dude
-pizza: Naples vs Rome; semolina vs no semolina; chef vs. the 8th generation Russian pizza connoisseur
-where was the coffee spoon? (a) not a coffee spoon-- a drug spoon (b) in Serge's tool box; (c) not a drug spoon-- a pooper scooper; (d) Bryan stole it to clean up after his new dog (e) Bryan has Flyers tickets
-pods: ever-widening screens from 54 to 58mm in diameter; they are evolving, and so must we; new packaging-- silver and sleek
-redefining "direct trade": buying directly from the children who stick the parchment around each bean
The cupping itself was a neat experience. Elliotte, Ben and I-- three baristas who had never been to such an event-- sat side by side on the bench across the table from JP, while he stood like an eccentric professor, waving around his hands until one of his unusually thick fingers got sliced by his own Pure Black twist-off cap and began bleeding profusely. As casual as his manner was, he had the air of knowledge about him as he spoke. He was in his element, talking about a subject that he had spent hundreds of thousands of hours of his life thinking about, studying, breathing, creating, tasting, drinking, dreaming and doing. Eventually, most of the office staff drifted in and joined the meeting, hanging around the perimeter of the gorgeous wooden conference table, but not quite sitting at it. Even Tobin, the accountant, popped his head in for a brief moment to say hello.
After the cupping of the first Panamanian bean, the cups-- rounded, white bowl types-- were washed, redosed with the second El Salvadorian beans, refilled with boiling water, and re-aligned in a straight line down the long bench table. We steeped and slurped. The surprise was that, as light as the El Sal was roasted (lighter than the Panamanian bean), it was much more pleasantly citrus-y and smooth than the sharply acidic Panamanian bean. Part of the reason for this seemingly paradoxical result may have been the inconsistent grind level of the two beans. JP suggested a darker roast for the sharply acidic Panamanian bean; Chris, the roaster, disagreed with an immediacy and certainty that impressed me.
We fell into discussions with our neighbors. From the right side of the room, I caught a tip from Chris: slurp a spoonful of the Panamanian, let it sit in your mouth, and the orange-iness will hit you like a bus. It hit me suddenly that "citrusy" did not necessarily entail "acidic". From the left side of the room, Patrick sat at the end of the table with a ph meter dipped into his cup of coffee, as focused as a doctor listening in on his stethoscope to the beating of a heart. He listed the following acidity levels for the sake of comparison: stomach juice-- 1; lemon juice-- 2 to 3; Panama-- 5.28; El Salvador-- ? A point emphasized and re-emphasized by the chef of the house was that the beans for the cupping were roasted lightly enough to expose the faults of the bean, but also dark enough to expose the beauty of the bean. He dipped his hand into the pile of roasted beans, lifted and let them run through his fingers as he spoke of their beauty.
Afterward, I, along with Ben and Patrick hopped in for a ride back with Ell (the other El), who dropped us off at our respective homes. We found ourselves driving into Headhouse Square. What a beautiful place at dusk. Hoagies for dinner.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
How Many Cups?
This evening at the Rittenhouse cafe, I served three girls decked out in head scarves and bedazzling outfits from Forever 21. The one in pink was from Baghdad; the other two from Tunisia and Morocco.
The three bedazzling ladies sat down at a table in the corner in front of the bar and began giggling like schoolgirls as Bart fell yet again into his hysterical "tragic laughter" state-- the one in which you can't tell if he is laughing or weeping. I was sure he was actually weeping this time until he pointed at Pedro and said that he was "very funny".
I had to agree with Bart this evening: Pedro was very funny. Today, Pedro chose the wrong time to trash talk to me and ended up with cappuccino all over his jeans. That was very funny. Then later during clean-up, we started swinging between the bar counters for fun, and in the blink of an eye, he was on the ground. That was also very funny, but only because he was unhurt.
I introduced the Deaf Elephant to both him and John this evening. They threw cups at me in return. Then they gave an observing customer a cup to throw at me too. Hence, I had three cups thrown at me today total. Paper cups, not the ceramics from Italy.
The three bedazzling ladies sat down at a table in the corner in front of the bar and began giggling like schoolgirls as Bart fell yet again into his hysterical "tragic laughter" state-- the one in which you can't tell if he is laughing or weeping. I was sure he was actually weeping this time until he pointed at Pedro and said that he was "very funny".
I had to agree with Bart this evening: Pedro was very funny. Today, Pedro chose the wrong time to trash talk to me and ended up with cappuccino all over his jeans. That was very funny. Then later during clean-up, we started swinging between the bar counters for fun, and in the blink of an eye, he was on the ground. That was also very funny, but only because he was unhurt.
I introduced the Deaf Elephant to both him and John this evening. They threw cups at me in return. Then they gave an observing customer a cup to throw at me too. Hence, I had three cups thrown at me today total. Paper cups, not the ceramics from Italy.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Day 10 of the Year 2012
I followed the full-ish moon to work; orange lilies lit up my workspace.
-what are ram horns? handlebar moustache turned upside-down; equivalently: what is a handlebar moustache? ram horns turned upside-down
-at the espresso bar: a calligraphy session with the two young, bubbly doctors-to-be; a discussion on the science of baking cheez-its with a crossword puzzling pastry chef
-a word in the English language with three of the same letter in a row: (a) does not exist; (b) "oooh!"
-Day 2 of this week's challenge: go to a dance class every day for 7 days straight. Screw the healthy balance; I embrace my obsession.
-I saw the date "January 8, 2012" printed on an online article; it took me a couple seconds to realize that this date was not in the science fiction-y future. Woah...From now on, we're livin' in the future!
-what are ram horns? handlebar moustache turned upside-down; equivalently: what is a handlebar moustache? ram horns turned upside-down
-at the espresso bar: a calligraphy session with the two young, bubbly doctors-to-be; a discussion on the science of baking cheez-its with a crossword puzzling pastry chef
-a word in the English language with three of the same letter in a row: (a) does not exist; (b) "oooh!"
-Day 2 of this week's challenge: go to a dance class every day for 7 days straight. Screw the healthy balance; I embrace my obsession.
-I saw the date "January 8, 2012" printed on an online article; it took me a couple seconds to realize that this date was not in the science fiction-y future. Woah...From now on, we're livin' in the future!
Saturday, January 07, 2012
Day 6 of the Year 2012
-crashed a classics conference at the Marriott: in which I discovered chaîne opératoire and listened to a scholar talk about Planet of the Apes
-with Mini Millar, built a cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid with an alligator moat which was then destroyed by the longest yell in history: in which I was all the while fascinated by the little engineer's obsession with the one particular form, which he built over and over again, utterly in the zone; in which the little engineer christened me "Crane-kay"
-inflamed by acer negundo, aka, box elder tree, whose wood turns brilliant streaks of red when attacked by borers like the ambrosia beetle
-took Juniper Street, the back alley route home; considered that calligraphy, flower arranging, and ornate sculpting of building facades require a similar mindset in their undertaking
-overdosed on darling clementines and put Mozart piano sonatas on repeat
-with Mini Millar, built a cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid, and then an even bigger cuppyramid with an alligator moat which was then destroyed by the longest yell in history: in which I was all the while fascinated by the little engineer's obsession with the one particular form, which he built over and over again, utterly in the zone; in which the little engineer christened me "Crane-kay"
-inflamed by acer negundo, aka, box elder tree, whose wood turns brilliant streaks of red when attacked by borers like the ambrosia beetle
-took Juniper Street, the back alley route home; considered that calligraphy, flower arranging, and ornate sculpting of building facades require a similar mindset in their undertaking
-overdosed on darling clementines and put Mozart piano sonatas on repeat
Friday, January 06, 2012
"Russian?" said Bart, "That's the language of Hell."
"What's the language of heaven?" asked Osama.
"Hebrew," was the prompt reply of the Messianic Schizophrenic Jew.
"What about Arabic?" countered Osama, who is Palestinian.
"Uhhh huh huh..."
"Uhhh huh huh..." echoed Rad from behind the bar.
For once, Bart was the less crazy of the crazy customers I encountered today at work. Oh La Colombe.
"What's the language of heaven?" asked Osama.
"Hebrew," was the prompt reply of the Messianic Schizophrenic Jew.
"What about Arabic?" countered Osama, who is Palestinian.
"Uhhh huh huh..."
"Uhhh huh huh..." echoed Rad from behind the bar.
For once, Bart was the less crazy of the crazy customers I encountered today at work. Oh La Colombe.
Monday, January 02, 2012
Day 2 of the Year 2012
A day off...
-watched Titanic at 6 in the morning
-tried not to weep over the fleeting nature of love and life
-broke my fast with nachos; ate grapes for dinner
-watched Titanic at 6 in the morning
-tried not to weep over the fleeting nature of love and life
-broke my fast with nachos; ate grapes for dinner
Sunday, January 01, 2012
Day 1 of the Year 2012:
-wake up, shower, and put on a tuxedo dress and black tie; but forget on purpose the creepy moustache
-serve coffee to dozens at the City Hall cafe; escape before the mummers get too obnoxious
-serve coffee to hundreds at the Rittenhouse cafe; chase them out at the closing hour with '90s techno hits
-take Broad Street path home and wonder at the chaos on the streets: trash everywhere, everywhere the stench of alcohol, drunken revelers on foot in droves; everywhere the flashing of blue and red cop lights
-come home, put food into stomach, decompress; consider watching Titanic; I cannot explain this sudden urge, nor shall I try to fight it
-serve coffee to dozens at the City Hall cafe; escape before the mummers get too obnoxious
-serve coffee to hundreds at the Rittenhouse cafe; chase them out at the closing hour with '90s techno hits
-take Broad Street path home and wonder at the chaos on the streets: trash everywhere, everywhere the stench of alcohol, drunken revelers on foot in droves; everywhere the flashing of blue and red cop lights
-come home, put food into stomach, decompress; consider watching Titanic; I cannot explain this sudden urge, nor shall I try to fight it
Friday, December 23, 2011
New Glasses
Good morning, world! The world is clear. Smooth wine red and sky blue frames circle the cuts of glass through which I see you now.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Clearance
After nearly two months of attempting to understand, accommodate, and excuse our neighbors across the street from the Dilworth cafe, the three of us who were working this morning stood outside the shop just before opening, as the sky grew light. B. held a cigarette in his hand, A. a mug of drip coffee, and I a single espresso. We stared at the empty cement plaza across the street which, up until one o'clock this morning, had held dozens and dozens of tents occupied by a peculiar, hygienically-challenged alien race.
As I had rounded the corner to Dilworth Plaza this morning, I had been greeted by an incredible sight of what appeared to be the entire Philadelphia police force surrounding this former tent city. Police cars lined up ass to nose, buses filled with riot police, a helicopter in the sky, workers (surprisingly not dressed in hazmat suits) clearing up the last scraps of tent and the last bit of the 27 tons of trash that had accumulated since October 6th. But not a single one of those smelly squatters remained.
The pastry man, along with the first two of our customers of the day showed up, so I headed in first. The other two followed suit soon after. A. did a quick bathroom check, dusted off his hands, and declared optimistically, "Yo! From now on, bathroom gonna be OK!" (Translation: No more clogged toilets, blood on the floor, overflowing trash, extreme BO, or lines that run longer than the line for coffee!)
What have I to say at the end of all this? I have learned that whoever you are, your politics means nothing to me. It says nothing to me automatically about what kind of person you are, or how you treat others. Politics is so superficial. It's so easy to hold up a set of political beliefs on a sandwich board and pretend that it defines you in any way, but now I know better. Don't bother telling me whether you are a Democrat or a Republican, investment banker or starving artist, of the 99% or the 1%. In my shop, I will see for myself whether your are courteous and kind and know how to flush a toilet.
As I had rounded the corner to Dilworth Plaza this morning, I had been greeted by an incredible sight of what appeared to be the entire Philadelphia police force surrounding this former tent city. Police cars lined up ass to nose, buses filled with riot police, a helicopter in the sky, workers (surprisingly not dressed in hazmat suits) clearing up the last scraps of tent and the last bit of the 27 tons of trash that had accumulated since October 6th. But not a single one of those smelly squatters remained.
The pastry man, along with the first two of our customers of the day showed up, so I headed in first. The other two followed suit soon after. A. did a quick bathroom check, dusted off his hands, and declared optimistically, "Yo! From now on, bathroom gonna be OK!" (Translation: No more clogged toilets, blood on the floor, overflowing trash, extreme BO, or lines that run longer than the line for coffee!)
What have I to say at the end of all this? I have learned that whoever you are, your politics means nothing to me. It says nothing to me automatically about what kind of person you are, or how you treat others. Politics is so superficial. It's so easy to hold up a set of political beliefs on a sandwich board and pretend that it defines you in any way, but now I know better. Don't bother telling me whether you are a Democrat or a Republican, investment banker or starving artist, of the 99% or the 1%. In my shop, I will see for myself whether your are courteous and kind and know how to flush a toilet.
Cafe Scenes
Mila came in today with a crown of flowers in her hair. I miss her coming into the shop in her pajamas and dangling from her tummy over the chair, experimenting with flight. Later, Gilda came in with her daughter to drop off biscotti.Who was cuter-- the mother or the daughter? I bought butterfly stickers after work for these girls and all the other adorables that come into the shop. Too many to count; too cute for words.
In the evening, I put on my alter ego attire-- a leotard, tights, and ballet slippers-- and headed over to ballet class. Along the way, I ran into the Red-Eye Winker (his drink is a red-eye, and he gives a friendly wink every time he orders). We both stood under our giant black umbrellas and doffed our imaginary hats at each other. He's just as silly as I am!
In the evening, I put on my alter ego attire-- a leotard, tights, and ballet slippers-- and headed over to ballet class. Along the way, I ran into the Red-Eye Winker (his drink is a red-eye, and he gives a friendly wink every time he orders). We both stood under our giant black umbrellas and doffed our imaginary hats at each other. He's just as silly as I am!
Thursday, October 13, 2011
As a La Colombe barista, I have a front row view of the tents occupying Dilworth Plaza, 6 hours a day, 4 days a week. It is interesting to be caught in in the middle of this movement physically and ideologically. Our second shop being located in the city's financial and government district, many of my "clients"-- the people to whom I serve their daily coffee-- are the very people whom the protesters are fighting against. I can't say whether they are part of the top wealthy 1%, but for sure they are not what I would call "middle class". Of course, our clientele is not limited to those who make banks, but they do make up a noteworthy portion.
Lately, however, we have had a great influx of clientele from the tents. In the beginning, they came in primarily to clean themselves up and piss in a proper toilet, but upon realizing that this was our livelihood, they started checking out our coffee as well. The exchange is often rather strange and awkward-- they come in already apologetic, perhaps holding up a cup they had purchased earlier in the day, head toward the bathroom asking in expression more than words if it's okay to use it. Some just head directly to the bathroom without making eye contact. Some act like normal customers and human beings, which is a welcome relief.
Yesterday, a mother took her daughter into the bathroom. I heard water running, then the hand dryer blowing, then suddenly a scream that carried throughout the cafe. For a millisecond, I was extremely worried, then realized the little girl was screaming with delight at how funny the air felt as it blow-dried her hair. I wondered if she was one of the children caught up in this movement unwittingly, forced to live in a plastic playhouse among the tents while their parents alternately stand proudly with their signs and ideologies, then turn around and break up tearful fights among one another's babies.
This evening, 5 minutes before closing time, an occupier gave a purposeful start when I offered her plastic cups for the water she had requested. She then proceeded to give an unsolicited explanation for why she "made a face" when I offered her the cups. "You see, I'm a person who recycles all the time..." I didn't need to hear this, and I can't say that I took it with grace. I have no patience for self-righteous, condescending, holier-than-thou attitudes, and it made me want to take a bulldozer over all those tents out there. It took me a few minutes in the back kitchen to remember that neither she, nor the mother with the screaming child, nor the awkward sidlers wholly represented the population of Occupy Philly.
For the most part, from poor students to the multimillionaires, our regular customers appear to acknowledge the occupation, but not bother themselves much over it. They have their own lives to lead which is to study, work, take care of their children, and other such responsibilities. As for me, as an American citizen officially categorized as being below the poverty line, I am caught between wanting to support a movement that fights against the injustices of Corporate America, and being wholly unable to identify with the type of people who are actually involved in the movement at the grassroots level.
Lately, however, we have had a great influx of clientele from the tents. In the beginning, they came in primarily to clean themselves up and piss in a proper toilet, but upon realizing that this was our livelihood, they started checking out our coffee as well. The exchange is often rather strange and awkward-- they come in already apologetic, perhaps holding up a cup they had purchased earlier in the day, head toward the bathroom asking in expression more than words if it's okay to use it. Some just head directly to the bathroom without making eye contact. Some act like normal customers and human beings, which is a welcome relief.
Yesterday, a mother took her daughter into the bathroom. I heard water running, then the hand dryer blowing, then suddenly a scream that carried throughout the cafe. For a millisecond, I was extremely worried, then realized the little girl was screaming with delight at how funny the air felt as it blow-dried her hair. I wondered if she was one of the children caught up in this movement unwittingly, forced to live in a plastic playhouse among the tents while their parents alternately stand proudly with their signs and ideologies, then turn around and break up tearful fights among one another's babies.
This evening, 5 minutes before closing time, an occupier gave a purposeful start when I offered her plastic cups for the water she had requested. She then proceeded to give an unsolicited explanation for why she "made a face" when I offered her the cups. "You see, I'm a person who recycles all the time..." I didn't need to hear this, and I can't say that I took it with grace. I have no patience for self-righteous, condescending, holier-than-thou attitudes, and it made me want to take a bulldozer over all those tents out there. It took me a few minutes in the back kitchen to remember that neither she, nor the mother with the screaming child, nor the awkward sidlers wholly represented the population of Occupy Philly.
For the most part, from poor students to the multimillionaires, our regular customers appear to acknowledge the occupation, but not bother themselves much over it. They have their own lives to lead which is to study, work, take care of their children, and other such responsibilities. As for me, as an American citizen officially categorized as being below the poverty line, I am caught between wanting to support a movement that fights against the injustices of Corporate America, and being wholly unable to identify with the type of people who are actually involved in the movement at the grassroots level.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Big Picture
Life is bigger than a Netflix price-hike. It is bigger,
even, than the biggest argument or most long-standing grudge. Every
problem comes with a choice: to care or not to care. It is a hazard to
care too much, as much as it is a hazard to care too little. There is no
right or wrong approach; just choice and consequence. Impressions are
far from immutable: given enough time, most things are forgotten, fade
into unimportance, are altered, or replaced. Evolution is inevitable for
anything that is not trapped in some literal or figurative amber. The
blue of a blue sky is never felt with such intensity as when change is
imminent-- a move, a voyage, or on a dramatic scale, a death. Clouds are
a beautiful, amazing planetary phenomena-- acres and acres of crimped
and wispy shapes scattered across that incredible blue, reflected in the
glass of the tallest city buildings, soaring out from between drab and
dingy abandoned structures, and illuminated gold by the rising morning sun.
To think of clouds and stars is a good and faithful reminder of the
briefness of one's time on this planet, a reminder of the relative
unimportance of most things we consider to be important. Answers, explanations, curiosities, the beautiful, the strange and the wondrous are readily discovered
when the mind is fully present and ready to receive: be still, look,
listen, consider the stars, and suddenly, the blue sky will leave you
breathless.
Monday, September 12, 2011
A Motivation for Making Images
“For Caravaggio, making images is a way of focusing the mind. To paint
something is to isolate it for the purposes of contemplation.” ~Andrew Graham-Dixon, Caravaggio: A Life Sacred & Profane
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Whimsical Meandering
Carter is tiny, and bald, with the most expressive eyebrows; she must be the happiest baby in the world. Does she know this? Her and her mother's daily visit to the coffeeshop makes my day. What else makes my day? Working with G makes me realize that you can never run out of things to say about poop and farts. This is amazing.
Ballet today: Every class at Symmetry is a craft. The Lakme Flower Duet beckons me into class from the foyer. I try my best to commit each exercise to memory. It is surprisingly doable this second time. I think that I don't like to smile in ballet class. To me, ballet is a noble and stoic art form and it seems incongruous and not genuine to paste on a smile for an imagine audience. Did the Spartan soldiers smile in warfare, rigid training and weary marches?
After class, I skip out on pointe class in order to write out each exercise from memory into my sketchbook. I feel very much like a student, a very serious student. I am driven by the knowledge that nothing good lasts forever; I am in a rush to become an independent ballerina. As I write out my notes, I suddenly consider trying to become a real ballerina. Later I wonder what does this mean, to be a "real" ballerina? Is performance what separates the student from the professional? But I already perform in the streets. Perhaps I am already a ballerina, and I have made the world my stage. Ooh! An idea blooms...A long terms project...every year a new stage...this year Russia...next year...
There is hope yet for my studio.
After ballet, I stop by the bookstore on the way home and read Harold and the Purple Crayon at the low wooden table. Oh Harold! He reminds me of Carter, so bald and whimsical. He creates his own world just like I create mine.
Ballet today: Every class at Symmetry is a craft. The Lakme Flower Duet beckons me into class from the foyer. I try my best to commit each exercise to memory. It is surprisingly doable this second time. I think that I don't like to smile in ballet class. To me, ballet is a noble and stoic art form and it seems incongruous and not genuine to paste on a smile for an imagine audience. Did the Spartan soldiers smile in warfare, rigid training and weary marches?
After class, I skip out on pointe class in order to write out each exercise from memory into my sketchbook. I feel very much like a student, a very serious student. I am driven by the knowledge that nothing good lasts forever; I am in a rush to become an independent ballerina. As I write out my notes, I suddenly consider trying to become a real ballerina. Later I wonder what does this mean, to be a "real" ballerina? Is performance what separates the student from the professional? But I already perform in the streets. Perhaps I am already a ballerina, and I have made the world my stage. Ooh! An idea blooms...A long terms project...every year a new stage...this year Russia...next year...
There is hope yet for my studio.
After ballet, I stop by the bookstore on the way home and read Harold and the Purple Crayon at the low wooden table. Oh Harold! He reminds me of Carter, so bald and whimsical. He creates his own world just like I create mine.
Monday, August 22, 2011
A Forgotten Feat
Ha! On this day last year, I made my first latte leaf. Thanks for the reminder, facebook. What I have learned since then is that:
--there is more than one pouring technique that works
--the way a barista pours his latte art is somewhat reflective of his personality
--the push that urges the foam out is the same physical mechanism as when the car comes to a sudden, abrupt halt and your body continues, or is thrown forward
An amazing occurrence at work today: I inherited a turtle ring from a stranger. "Can you write me into your will for that ring?" I joked. A few more jokes and comments about the ring's origin, then a slight hesitation, and suddenly she was taking it off and giving it to me. The last time I experienced this sort of generosity from strangers was many times over in Kurdistan, when mothers and grandmothers would give me the scarf off their heads, and their little girls would give me cheap jewelry they'd bought at the bazaar.
This time, the gift is not so cheap-- an original from the Urban Outfitter headquarters, given to her by her ex, and now passed on to her barista. The particulars: Its silver head and legs wobble, and its back is studded with emeralds. It fits too loosely on all the fingers of my left hand, but once squeezed past my freakishly large right thumb knuckle, it remains snug and safe. Dr. Gashu saw the entire scene while he waited to order his daily cappuccino. "Did you guys really just meet?" Yup...yes indeed.
A funny occurrence at work today: I wore my new newsgirl hat with a sidelong bow, which I picked up at a Payless in New York City on Saturday, and it drew several independent comments about Chairman Mao. I tell them I am getting into the spirit of the Communist Era, in preparation for my trip to Russia. I realize I know next to nothing about Chairman Mao. So much to learn, so much to read, so little time to do it all.
The dynamic at the cafe today was strange: eerily quiet for the first hour or two, despite the gorgeous, perfect 80-degree weather outside, then finally the buzz of conversation began as a couple of regulars congregated in front of the bar. Behind the bar, I experienced one of the smoothest operations yet as I worked the register and John manned the machines for the first three hours.
--there is more than one pouring technique that works
--the way a barista pours his latte art is somewhat reflective of his personality
--the push that urges the foam out is the same physical mechanism as when the car comes to a sudden, abrupt halt and your body continues, or is thrown forward
An amazing occurrence at work today: I inherited a turtle ring from a stranger. "Can you write me into your will for that ring?" I joked. A few more jokes and comments about the ring's origin, then a slight hesitation, and suddenly she was taking it off and giving it to me. The last time I experienced this sort of generosity from strangers was many times over in Kurdistan, when mothers and grandmothers would give me the scarf off their heads, and their little girls would give me cheap jewelry they'd bought at the bazaar.
This time, the gift is not so cheap-- an original from the Urban Outfitter headquarters, given to her by her ex, and now passed on to her barista. The particulars: Its silver head and legs wobble, and its back is studded with emeralds. It fits too loosely on all the fingers of my left hand, but once squeezed past my freakishly large right thumb knuckle, it remains snug and safe. Dr. Gashu saw the entire scene while he waited to order his daily cappuccino. "Did you guys really just meet?" Yup...yes indeed.
A funny occurrence at work today: I wore my new newsgirl hat with a sidelong bow, which I picked up at a Payless in New York City on Saturday, and it drew several independent comments about Chairman Mao. I tell them I am getting into the spirit of the Communist Era, in preparation for my trip to Russia. I realize I know next to nothing about Chairman Mao. So much to learn, so much to read, so little time to do it all.
The dynamic at the cafe today was strange: eerily quiet for the first hour or two, despite the gorgeous, perfect 80-degree weather outside, then finally the buzz of conversation began as a couple of regulars congregated in front of the bar. Behind the bar, I experienced one of the smoothest operations yet as I worked the register and John manned the machines for the first three hours.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Jeremiad: A Debbie Downer On Steroids, in Writing
A jeremiad is a "long, literary work which bitterly laments the state of society and its morals, and moreover prophesies its imminent downfall."
Assignment #6: Write a jeremiad. Preliminary exercise to this assignment: get seriously pissed off.
Assignment #6: Write a jeremiad. Preliminary exercise to this assignment: get seriously pissed off.
Tuesday, August 02, 2011
Pesto Roots
I'm making OG pesto tonight! Ingredients for OG pesto:
(a) pistillum (Latin)=>pestel (Old French)=>pestle (English).
(b) pistillum (Latin)=>pestare(Italian)=>pesto (Italian/English).
(c) Originally, a mortar and pestle was used to make pesto.
Note: The word pestle came before pesto since the former had to exist to make the latter. But they originate from the same Latin root.
Update from the kitchen:
The smell wafting out of the mortar is divinely basil-ic. The smashed basil swimming in its own juices looks like a home-made facial. I would like to slather it all over my face, but I shall resist.
(a) pistillum (Latin)=>pestel (Old French)=>pestle (English).
(b) pistillum (Latin)=>pestare(Italian)=>pesto (Italian/English).
(c) Originally, a mortar and pestle was used to make pesto.
Note: The word pestle came before pesto since the former had to exist to make the latter. But they originate from the same Latin root.
Update from the kitchen:
The smell wafting out of the mortar is divinely basil-ic. The smashed basil swimming in its own juices looks like a home-made facial. I would like to slather it all over my face, but I shall resist.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Slow Sundays
Sundays at the new cafe are like a La Colombe playgroup for kids 3 and under. Today I caught an origami bird for one of them (the one that comes in every morning barefoot, hair disheveled, and still in her pajamas). Her mother loved it more than she did. Sparrows are deceptively sweet looking; in reality very vicious creatures who attack butterflies and damage their wings. Sundays at the new cafe is also like watching the Nature Channel through the huge ceiling to floor windows. As much as I love to work mindlessly making and serving coffee, I enjoy the slow Sundays for now. The new cafe is an airy haven of peace for families and visitors from out of town, here for conferences and weddings. Also notes of worth from this morning's shift: a chair sitting instead of being sat on, a wounded spider who came into the air-conditioned cafe to pass the last hour of its life, and the dear Ethiopian doctor who had been on my mind lately for the lack of his presence.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Confession
Sometimes at the new shop, I get so bored that I forget why I love my job. For six hours, I alternate between (a) fighting the urge to quit and (b) giving meaningful, top-notch customer service to the few who do come in. C'mon Angie, stay with it! It's good, very good, that I get a couple shifts every week at the old place to remind myself of the magic of actually laboring behind the bar. I look forward to the end of summer when business is sure to pick up and I get to lose myself once again in mindless multitasking. I'm going to start attending morning ballet again for some fulfillment to my days. For now, I sit with Harry Potter yeah...
Monday, July 18, 2011
Morning Pep Talk
I am unapologetically ANGIE. I embrace my imperfections. I rise above pettiness; pettiness is for small, blind people. If my life becomes fraught with issues the way it has been the last couple weeks, I will try my best to handle them with grace and composure-- the way I was taught to in the ballet studio. I will come out the winner.
Addendum: The only thing I need from you are care, kindness, respect, and loyalty. Show me these things, and I will not forget you. My loyalty extends far, really really far.
Addendum: The only thing I need from you are care, kindness, respect, and loyalty. Show me these things, and I will not forget you. My loyalty extends far, really really far.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Cold-Brew Coffee
A couple weeks ago, I decided to jump on the toddy bandwagon and
experiment with cold-brewed coffee. I soaked coarsely ground Haitian
Blue Forest beans in my French Press overnight, then pressed it twice
and poured the resulting liquid into a pitcher. I let it sit in my
fridge for the next few days mostly because I forgot about it. Too many
things going on.
Now that I am moving house, I re-discovered it while in "throw-away mode" and finally tasted it-- straight up, without diluting it with water. I caught a whiff of it just before the first sip, and frowned-- not because it smelled bad, but because it smelled oddly familiar. After a couple more sips, I realized why, and here's my initial verdict on cold-brewed coffee concentrate:
It tastes like a mild form of the Korean/Chinese herbal medicine called hanyak. I used to hate that stuff growing up. They really shouldn't tell kids that what they're drinking contains deer antlers, tortoise shells, and dried up insects. I much prefer this milder coffee variety, though it might not contain the same healing powers.
Now that I am moving house, I re-discovered it while in "throw-away mode" and finally tasted it-- straight up, without diluting it with water. I caught a whiff of it just before the first sip, and frowned-- not because it smelled bad, but because it smelled oddly familiar. After a couple more sips, I realized why, and here's my initial verdict on cold-brewed coffee concentrate:
It tastes like a mild form of the Korean/Chinese herbal medicine called hanyak. I used to hate that stuff growing up. They really shouldn't tell kids that what they're drinking contains deer antlers, tortoise shells, and dried up insects. I much prefer this milder coffee variety, though it might not contain the same healing powers.
Saturday, July 09, 2011
Baked Ziti on the Fly
What is "Baked Ziti On The Fly"? It is the taking of the technique used in making traditional baked ziti, and adapting it to whatever ingredients you have on hand. One must not plan to make Baked Ziti on the Fly; one must become inspired to make it On The Fly, preferably at 7 in the am when the house is still quiet.
-sauce: Leonardo e Roberto's garlic basic parmesan dipping oil, which your roommate bought at a flower show over a year ago and left in the house when she moved to Nashville; LeR's sundried tomato dipping oil; half cup of milk for some semblance of 'sauciness'; minced garlic; salt; onion powder; crushed dried chili pepper from Indian grocery; an egg. Saute garlic and oils first; cool mixture with cold milk before tossing in the egg; toss in extra garlic if you are of Korean descent
-penne (meaning 'feather' or 'quill') pasta leftover from previous pasta cooking endeavor (vodka penne), cooked less than al dente
-frozen broccoli for extra nutrition; toss in with boiling penne
-old pancetta wrapped in foil that you scrutinize and end up tossing into the bin because old meat is a health risk
-fresh rosemary; forget to put this in
-order in the pan: cooking spray, pasta, sauce, extra onion powder; parm cheese to heart's content, bread crumbs; bake at 375 degrees Fahrenheit until it looks and tastes good to you; forget to cover with aluminum foil
-use other baked ziti cheeses (mozzarella, ricotta, etc.) and spaghetti sauce only if you have them on hand
-mourn the lack of sriracha sauce
-sauce: Leonardo e Roberto's garlic basic parmesan dipping oil, which your roommate bought at a flower show over a year ago and left in the house when she moved to Nashville; LeR's sundried tomato dipping oil; half cup of milk for some semblance of 'sauciness'; minced garlic; salt; onion powder; crushed dried chili pepper from Indian grocery; an egg. Saute garlic and oils first; cool mixture with cold milk before tossing in the egg; toss in extra garlic if you are of Korean descent
-penne (meaning 'feather' or 'quill') pasta leftover from previous pasta cooking endeavor (vodka penne), cooked less than al dente
-frozen broccoli for extra nutrition; toss in with boiling penne
-old pancetta wrapped in foil that you scrutinize and end up tossing into the bin because old meat is a health risk
-fresh rosemary; forget to put this in
-order in the pan: cooking spray, pasta, sauce, extra onion powder; parm cheese to heart's content, bread crumbs; bake at 375 degrees Fahrenheit until it looks and tastes good to you; forget to cover with aluminum foil
-use other baked ziti cheeses (mozzarella, ricotta, etc.) and spaghetti sauce only if you have them on hand
-mourn the lack of sriracha sauce
Friday, July 08, 2011
Counting My Blessings
Today was a good day. It thundered. It rained; it poured. I got to work
with my barista mentor and we actually got to hustle a few times, though
the line was never anywhere near what it is at the old shop...yet. I
bantered with an SNL comedian. I got to make lovely latte leaves and
nerdy math jokes to the young professionals who walked in wearing
graph-shirts. I fell asleep in mid-afternoon to the sound of thunder
clapping and rain dripping down to my bathroom floor. I slipped of
course, but did not fall. I got to wear my purple rain boots. I got to
pay my toddler friend a visit in her carseat. The car door opened.
"Elsa, look what daddy found! Who is this Elsa?" The toddler spoke my
name and kicked her feet excitedly in the air. I'm honored to be part of
her relatively vast, yet limited vocabulary. I got to go to a Friday
afternoon ballet class and have a real talk with my ballet mentor.
Half-price sandwiches and a funny book at Capogiro's. And still the rain
comes down hard, pelting and rushing. I get to be inside on a night
like this. The scar on my right eyelid is healing nicely; I no longer
look like a character out of Starship Enterprise, or whatever that show
was called. I was never a tried-and-true trekky.
Thursday, July 07, 2011
Parnassus on Wheels
"But books aren't a substantial world after all, and every now and then we get hungry for some closer, more human relationships." ~Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley
One could replace the word "books" with "ballet" and that sentence would neatly encapsulate the conclusion I arrived at after months of being in love with ballet. There was a time when I believed adamantly that I needed nothing else. After a time, however, I found I was using it as a means to fill the void left by my solitary ways. As I came to realize, one type of love cannot replace another. There is love of objects, love of ideals, and then there is love of other beings like myself, and only one of these three can reciprocate.
Happiness: When I am working, I am brimming with energy. When I'm lying in bed, I am restless. When little Elsa comes for her daily visit, my day brightens. When I am practicing Russian, my day feels less wasted. I could migrate to a remote region of the Himalayas and meditate on a mountainside for the next five years, but it is incomprehensible to me that such a distance from the world and its inhabitants would bring me internal peace, but perhaps this is so because I am un-Enlightened. On the other hand, when I am in the ballet studio, sweating and working the muscles, I feel happier and more centered and focused. I feel we are born to work and sweat. I get excited when I'm making big plans for the future. I live for the presumably greater future. Happiness is associated with peace, yet all the striving that brings me these good feelings is rife with hard work and fatigue. And good feelings never last forever. I can't lie in bed forever. Sometimes not even for a normal period of sleep. But after days and days of restlessness and striving, all that weight will come down on me and I can finally sleep and sleep and sleep. Who decided that a normal day cycle would last 24 hours? Neither my brain nor my body functions at such regular intervals.
However, regularity may be exactly the medicine I need. It occurs to me that the rhythm achieved behind the bar by automated, repetitive, coordinated action could be achieved on a larger scale and bring me a similar sense of happiness outside of work. Getting into the swing of things on a larger scale. I think this is the idea behind ritual: repetitive actions that bring about a certain dynamic and meaning to daily life. Yet, I think the greatest happiness comes from when that dynamic is shared with another human being. Ballet is not enough, a career is not enough, books are not enough because as stated above, none of these activities, no matter how much they are driven by ideals and passion, can reciprocate basic human emotions. I am, without a doubt, a social animal. Not everyone is.
One could replace the word "books" with "ballet" and that sentence would neatly encapsulate the conclusion I arrived at after months of being in love with ballet. There was a time when I believed adamantly that I needed nothing else. After a time, however, I found I was using it as a means to fill the void left by my solitary ways. As I came to realize, one type of love cannot replace another. There is love of objects, love of ideals, and then there is love of other beings like myself, and only one of these three can reciprocate.
Happiness: When I am working, I am brimming with energy. When I'm lying in bed, I am restless. When little Elsa comes for her daily visit, my day brightens. When I am practicing Russian, my day feels less wasted. I could migrate to a remote region of the Himalayas and meditate on a mountainside for the next five years, but it is incomprehensible to me that such a distance from the world and its inhabitants would bring me internal peace, but perhaps this is so because I am un-Enlightened. On the other hand, when I am in the ballet studio, sweating and working the muscles, I feel happier and more centered and focused. I feel we are born to work and sweat. I get excited when I'm making big plans for the future. I live for the presumably greater future. Happiness is associated with peace, yet all the striving that brings me these good feelings is rife with hard work and fatigue. And good feelings never last forever. I can't lie in bed forever. Sometimes not even for a normal period of sleep. But after days and days of restlessness and striving, all that weight will come down on me and I can finally sleep and sleep and sleep. Who decided that a normal day cycle would last 24 hours? Neither my brain nor my body functions at such regular intervals.
However, regularity may be exactly the medicine I need. It occurs to me that the rhythm achieved behind the bar by automated, repetitive, coordinated action could be achieved on a larger scale and bring me a similar sense of happiness outside of work. Getting into the swing of things on a larger scale. I think this is the idea behind ritual: repetitive actions that bring about a certain dynamic and meaning to daily life. Yet, I think the greatest happiness comes from when that dynamic is shared with another human being. Ballet is not enough, a career is not enough, books are not enough because as stated above, none of these activities, no matter how much they are driven by ideals and passion, can reciprocate basic human emotions. I am, without a doubt, a social animal. Not everyone is.
Saturday, July 02, 2011
Musings of a Barista
I got six shifts this week! Time to rest up so I can be present with my customers. A year later, I still have to remind myself to take it easy, take it slow. I'm too much like a tornado...too many crazy weekend shifts that made me think that that was the norm. Watching the new hires who work so slowly and methodically, I realize that this is where I can get better, where I can develop an eye for detail.
A year into the coffee business, I find myself wondering how much of my views on the politics and philosophies surrounding the coffee industry are my own, and how much are those of my beloved company. Most of the coffee philosophy that I hear from my bosses seem utterly sensible. They are of the old world of coffee: when it was just a cup of joe, not the Holy Grail of Josephus; when an espresso was an elegant affair, not a cosmic explosion; when options were available, but not overwhelming. There is such a thing as too many choices.
As well, I don't believe in putting on airs where airs don't belong. Coffee enhanced my life a thousand-fold when it was introduced to me through this barista job. It gave me ritual-- an act that develops meaning through repetition--, it gave me an appreciation for the complexities of taste, and it attuned me to the possibilities of beauty contained in ingestible products-- beauty contained in a cup. Yet, as much as coffee has given me this past year, to me, it is still a product of the Earth and not a nectar of the gods, and for me to treat and serve it as such would be pure hyperbole and downright pretentious.
As a barista, I have made espresso a regular part of my daily life. I take a shot before almost every shift, partly so I can know my product and develop a palate over time, and partly for the sake of ritual. This is to say that I do believe the nuances exist, but number one: they are detectable by the human senses only to an extent, and that extent varies with each individual, can be developed, but takes time to develop, and number two: the ability to detect the nuances and describe them with flair has become a great big show of (mostly false) intellect, which I don't particularly care for. I did not leave the stuffy, recondite world of academia only to enter another high-brow, elitist coffee-stained ivory tower. Making coffee is a craft full of aesthetics and nuances. What it is not: a high art that is comprehensible only to the very learn-ed and designed to alienate the masses. As a barista at La Colombe, I am happy to work for a company that does its best to tamp down such high-brow inclinations. What I hear from my boss-- in his albeit brash and theatrical way-- aligns with my own internal inclination towards simplicity and down-to-earthiness.
What else, what else? Coffee gave me a rich history to study, a field for the observation of human nature in a most interesting setting, and best of all, it gave me great co-workers. Of all the people I have met through this job, I have found the ones on my side of the bar to be the most interesting to study, perhaps because I have the privilege of working alongside them in such close quarters. If you are stuck in a tiny room with one other person for 6 hours at a time, and moreover are working in concert with them, it is difficult not to pick up on the deepest aspects of their character. But these are stories for a private audience.
As I stepped behind the register for the first time last June, I experienced for the first time rapid-fire service that put me in varying mental states from automaton to "there, but not really there". I experienced what it felt like to work as a team and fall into a rhythm that required less words and more eye contact and intuition to make it swing. I learned the importance of confidence and pride in one's work. I learned from the best-- by watching my colleagues-- the ones I call the "Classic Crew"-- and picking out the best aspects of each of their work-habits and trying to make them my own. I've learned that even behind this bar, we are not immune to disagreement, tension, competition, and the usual bullshit that surrounds work settings, and it doesn't matter whether it is mostly guys or mostly gals. Each gender has his or her own way of manifesting irritating behaviors and creating "drama". However, if the proper measures are taken, this job has the most uncanny ability to mask the negatives and bring out the greatest aspects of a barista's personality. I think I believe this anyway. I have faith.
Going back to the issue of coffee philosophy, what is coffee to me, a server of this prized and ubiquitous substance? It is in its spirit of communion, a drink that brings people together for conversation with ease, efficiency, and elegance; in its spirit of solitude, a drink that brings comfort to cold, sleepy mornings, or even to hot afternoons and evenings.
A year into the coffee business, I find myself wondering how much of my views on the politics and philosophies surrounding the coffee industry are my own, and how much are those of my beloved company. Most of the coffee philosophy that I hear from my bosses seem utterly sensible. They are of the old world of coffee: when it was just a cup of joe, not the Holy Grail of Josephus; when an espresso was an elegant affair, not a cosmic explosion; when options were available, but not overwhelming. There is such a thing as too many choices.
As well, I don't believe in putting on airs where airs don't belong. Coffee enhanced my life a thousand-fold when it was introduced to me through this barista job. It gave me ritual-- an act that develops meaning through repetition--, it gave me an appreciation for the complexities of taste, and it attuned me to the possibilities of beauty contained in ingestible products-- beauty contained in a cup. Yet, as much as coffee has given me this past year, to me, it is still a product of the Earth and not a nectar of the gods, and for me to treat and serve it as such would be pure hyperbole and downright pretentious.
As a barista, I have made espresso a regular part of my daily life. I take a shot before almost every shift, partly so I can know my product and develop a palate over time, and partly for the sake of ritual. This is to say that I do believe the nuances exist, but number one: they are detectable by the human senses only to an extent, and that extent varies with each individual, can be developed, but takes time to develop, and number two: the ability to detect the nuances and describe them with flair has become a great big show of (mostly false) intellect, which I don't particularly care for. I did not leave the stuffy, recondite world of academia only to enter another high-brow, elitist coffee-stained ivory tower. Making coffee is a craft full of aesthetics and nuances. What it is not: a high art that is comprehensible only to the very learn-ed and designed to alienate the masses. As a barista at La Colombe, I am happy to work for a company that does its best to tamp down such high-brow inclinations. What I hear from my boss-- in his albeit brash and theatrical way-- aligns with my own internal inclination towards simplicity and down-to-earthiness.
What else, what else? Coffee gave me a rich history to study, a field for the observation of human nature in a most interesting setting, and best of all, it gave me great co-workers. Of all the people I have met through this job, I have found the ones on my side of the bar to be the most interesting to study, perhaps because I have the privilege of working alongside them in such close quarters. If you are stuck in a tiny room with one other person for 6 hours at a time, and moreover are working in concert with them, it is difficult not to pick up on the deepest aspects of their character. But these are stories for a private audience.
As I stepped behind the register for the first time last June, I experienced for the first time rapid-fire service that put me in varying mental states from automaton to "there, but not really there". I experienced what it felt like to work as a team and fall into a rhythm that required less words and more eye contact and intuition to make it swing. I learned the importance of confidence and pride in one's work. I learned from the best-- by watching my colleagues-- the ones I call the "Classic Crew"-- and picking out the best aspects of each of their work-habits and trying to make them my own. I've learned that even behind this bar, we are not immune to disagreement, tension, competition, and the usual bullshit that surrounds work settings, and it doesn't matter whether it is mostly guys or mostly gals. Each gender has his or her own way of manifesting irritating behaviors and creating "drama". However, if the proper measures are taken, this job has the most uncanny ability to mask the negatives and bring out the greatest aspects of a barista's personality. I think I believe this anyway. I have faith.
Going back to the issue of coffee philosophy, what is coffee to me, a server of this prized and ubiquitous substance? It is in its spirit of communion, a drink that brings people together for conversation with ease, efficiency, and elegance; in its spirit of solitude, a drink that brings comfort to cold, sleepy mornings, or even to hot afternoons and evenings.
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