Whisk on a High Wire: entry Nineteen, The Journey

Entry Nineteen

I had to drive 30 miles round trip today to pick up a couple of gallons of milk to get us through until our dairy delivery later this week. Though on the freeway the path runs through wilderness along the great river. This is new geology here as am I new to the restaurant business. If I were having to take this journey on a weekend day my absence from the café would leave the staff stranded. As it is, though, I can take my time a bit and enjoy the craggy cliffs still sloughing loose rock created millions of years ago by flood waters through here.

I am made aware of my insignificance. If I stop and pick up a rock along the road I know that rock is as old as the earth and for some reason the fact that the rock released its grip on the cliff during my lifetime just as in my lifetime I have witnesses a volcano blow its top I feel aware of all that I will miss when I am gone.

I drive under an overpass that artists decorated with public art funds. The depiction is of buffalo running through grasslands. There used to be American Indians hunting the buffalo in the scene but because no tribes were consulted about being included in the art it was requested they be removed from the installation. When people are repressed, shat upon, relocated against their will, purposefully starved of their culture they will exercise their power in any way they can to try to make up for some of the loss. This is a natural law of human nature; a law that can apply to employees as well.

We try to treat our employees with respect, trust and kindness. This is not a law of the restaurant business. In a lot of restaurants the opposite is true. I was told to never trust my employees, to keep a hard hand on them, intimidate them or they will take advantage of me. What I’ve found is that it doesn’t matter how I treat those who work for me, some will try to take advantage of me anyway, some will betray my trust but a majority will work extra hard to do their best in an atmosphere of trust.

We have an employee I’m worried about. He cannot handle the intensity of weekend breakfast/lunch. He literally looks as if he’s having a heart attack on line during the rush and is on some kind of heart medicine. I’ve had staff complain about sanitation with regard to him as well. I’ve spoken to him about whether or not he feels he is doing well under these circumstances and he responds defensively to no surprise. I am going to have to demote him. We’ll see what happens. He fancies himself a “chef” but I think his only experience has been with pre-packaged chain food.

Speaking of which, I went to breakfast at a restaurant recently and requested a frittata. I was told they didn’t come in until the next day. I wonder what would have happened if I’d ordered oatmeal.

I pick up the milk then decide to take the scenic route home. This narrow two lane road winds in hairpins through cliffs of basalt. Deer are almost always present so I keep a watchful eye out. Across the river I see another small tributary flowing under a rainbow bridge merging through sandbars with the main flow. In spite of the arid summers here the two rivers will continue their dance year round and will both be carriers of Coho, Chinook, Steelhead and numerous other fish. There isn’t a lot of locally grown produce around here yet but fruit and fish are abundant.

This morning a local farmer dropped off a case of freshly picked peaches for me. Local farmers are my knights. I never purchase peaches in the stores because they are inedible. These were so good I couldn’t stand to let one drop of juice get away. Peach pies, cobblers, peaches and cream, peach salsa, peach smoothies, peach muffins, peach sauce with lamb, peach ice cream, where do I begin.

Feeding people is almost as timeless as these hills. As I struggle with feeding 83 I think of feeding thousands of men in armies during war, or feeding thousands in Las Vegas it boggles my mind. Who’s in charge of these events anyway and how do they do it?

Upon return I am told our cook in question was caught red handed stealing tips from the other cooks. Wait staff put a percentage of their tips in envelopes and leave them labeled with each person’s name. He was opening someone else’s envelop and dropped it when caught. I guess I’ll be looking for another cook tomorrow and changing the locks tonight.

Whisk on a High Wire: entry Eighteen, The Celebrity

Entry 18

Pork pie hat and brown vest it had to be him but what was he doing way out here? Of course I could be wrong but if I was right would he rather not be recognized or would he be flattered? I let him pick his seat. He had a companion with him. Not the sort of guy you’d expect him to run around with so if this was the guy I thought he was then the other one must be part of his entourage though not a manager necessarily.

They didn’t sit by the windows. As a matter of fact, they sat in the least desirable seats in the house, near the door. What, for a quick escape? They were the only ones in the café, it wasn’t as if they needed to walk past a bunch of people who might recognize them. They didn’t have lunch either, just some date bread pudding and coffee. Or at least he did, I didn’t notice what he other guy had.

A year or so ago on a very quiet spring afternoon a couple came into the place. He had a full head of curly silver hair and she wore an ethnic looking, off the shoulder cotton dress adorned with ric rac. She appeared intelligent. They both appeared very interesting.

From the kitchen hands full of flour I just knew I had to go get to know this couple. I washed my hands and stepped into the dining room. I walked up to their table and asked them what brought them to such a small town.

She replied that whenever they travel they look for the small towns to mail postcards because there is never a line at the post office. Smart, I knew it.

Come to find out he was a personal chef of a famous TV and movie star. Had been asked for by her when she tasted food he’d catered at a Hollywood party. He traveled with her and cooked for her.

He had a son who was a cook in Mississippi and we ended up talking with him about coming to work for us but he was happy where he was so we had to settle for a couple of good conversations.

The couple showed up here a few of times and I was always happy to sit and chat with them. We shared a lot in common about the world at large and I loved hearing stories of cooking for the world’s most famous red head.

My two guys, Mr. Pork Pie and his sidekick didn’t stay long. I asked what brought him to our little town. He replied that he was performing in the city near by and always took day trips in search of antiques. The building next door had a top to bottom sign reading “Antiques” on it but I told him that typical of our town signs should not be taken literally. No gas at the Gas sign and no antiques at the antique sign. The only antique in that building is its resident and she’s very rusty around the edges.

I asked him if he was THE person I thought he was and he said that he thought there was one in Kansas City but he died so yes, he was the one.

I love his music and am old enough to feel a bit of nostalgia over it but I didn’t tell him that part. As a matter of fact for once I kept my big mouth shut and didn’t say that I just loved “Magnolia” and had played it over and over once when I worked at a Dude Ranch in Colorado. it was in fact NOT his song as I remembered later. J.J. Cale sang that song and I would have died if I’d gotten the two mixed up.

Such is the challenge of having to have instant recall in a moment of admiration. The recall can be iffy. It’s enough I have to memorize hundreds of names of customers and try to remember them all when I am out and about during my time off.

I don’t know who else famous will drop in here. Probably have missed a few already. People generally like to be incognito when they go out so it is just as well they don’t get noticed unless they have esteem problems and need the recognition like a junkie needs a fix.

Back in my kitchen I am reminded that you never know who’ll stop by which is why I yammer on at my wait staff about treating everybody as if they were a celebrity. They just might run into one. But the most feared goof in this business is the food critic.

Food critics pop in unnoticed or in disguise as Ruth Riekel former editor of Gourmet Magazine used to do. They don’t want preferential service and raise fear in the hearts of restaurateurs. They always seem to arrive when you have your weakest waitress or waiter on the floor or a substitute or novice cook on that night.

Luck was on our side when we did NOT have a critic stop by the time I was on a short break from the café and we were breaking in a new so called cook.

He was supposed to have been supervised by our managing chef who decided to let him be and do his own prep for the next day. This means that our chef didn’t notice that the guy was filling his half empty Sprite bottle with the box cooking wine all night and snorting stuff up his nose by the dumpster out back.

It also meant he didn’t notice that the spinach salad was going out with just spinach in it. No red onion, no hazelnuts, no orange slices and god knows whether it had any dressing.

In addition, I don’t know if the steaks were well, rare or medium as ordered or if he knew how we do our chicken fried steak.

No matter, as luck would have it he took a job at a truck stop claiming it a better job and we were off the hook.

Sometimes losing a cook is a good thing but mostly not.

Whisk on a High Wire: entry Seventeen

Entry 17

There is no snooze button on life. If I don’t get up, go to work on time employees can’t get into the building. Customers don’t like irregular hours particularly if they travel miles to dine. Besides, consistency is the name of the restaurant game.

Fever, chills, bad things coming out of my body from more than one direction but there isn’t anyone to cover for me today until 4 hours into the day. I shower, look for a filter mask and drag my shell into the kitchen. Am I just setting an example or is this completely necessary. On any other day I’d be covered but sometimes you simply aren’t the only one to get hit.

We’ve had this stuff running through the staff and I thought I’d missed it but as the last one to get it I’ll be miserable for the next ten days at least and on auto pilot. There’s always something to be grateful for, Mother’s Day is past and the tourists haven’t arrived yet. Not a bad time to be sick if that is what has been handed down. Think I’ll make chicken soup today.

I keep imitation chicken paste for our soup only as emergency back up and then only to stretch if needed. I pull out a whole chicken, cut off most of the breast meat then crack the parts at their joints. This will help release the inner flavor though there is enough vegetarian in me to cringe at the sound and my own awareness. Covering the bones and meat by an inch or two I add 2 chopped carrots, 2 diced stalks of celery, a small yellow onion and 5 black pepper corns. After bringing the pot to a boil and skimming off the foam, I reduce the heat to low and simmer the broth for 4 hours. Once done, I’ll strain it through a sieve and stick a bottle 3/4 filled with frozen water into the liquid to quick chill it before putting it in the walk-in. Health department rules dictate this cooling down for two reasons; one, it allows you to get the stock into refrigeration before bacteria can start to grow at 45 degrees F. and two, placing a large pot of very hot food can warm up the walk-in thus allowing bacteria to start growing in other foods as well.

Once chilled, I’ll remove the fat and have my soup stock. It really is one of the more satisfying things to make because so many restaurant soups are terrible when made with bouillon and with a good stock you can toss just about anything into it and have a wonderful soup.

Chicken soup has been proven to help fight flu and colds, I’m very motivated right now to get some going.

Really, it is so mental this working under the weather. Motivation, adrenaline, whatever, these factors are put into play when one has no choice. The medical mask is hot and uncomfortable, a constant reminder of my condition and I wash my hands about every 5 minutes. Soon I’m so absorbed in the long prep list I lose all track of time.

The shift goes quickly and the first evening shift employee through the door kicks me out of the kitchen, he only had to look at my eyes. I feel cared for at last and gladly wrap up the Thai and BBQ sauces on the stove. I take the dirty utensils from the pies I made to the dishwasher, clean and sanitize the baker’s table then round up all my spoons, knives and mixing bowls.

I check in with the night crew to see what they will have on for specials tonight wishing I could be around to savor the fare but I know I’ll be in aspirin dreamland.

I’m just a good night’s sleep away from another day. Outside I check the landscape for wild flowers. They are popping up and are as welcome as the Pony Express once was in this community. A rainbow bridges the river softly resting on the hill on the other side. I want so to go for a hike but know better, big luncheon tomorrow and the beginning of the weekend.

I’ll need every ounce of strength I can muster, patience too. The tourists simply don’t have the same humility of my community. It takes a while for them to shed the dregs of the city, unfortunately we are usually their first stop so their city feathers can still be puffed up a bit.

Yes the lettuce is NOT ice berg, no we don’t use MSG, yes the produce is locally grown when we can get it, the beef is natural, the pork is not, the fish is local the chicken is not, the tuna on the tuna sandwich is NOT a fresh fillet at $7.95, we do have rice noodles, no we cannot put the potatoes on the grill and crisp them for you and yes, you can have your burger rare. No we don’t air dry the romaine for 8 hours in the Caesar salad. The locals get such a kick out of these people, they can hardly contain themselves as for me, they are just another element in the vast mix that is this establishment. You want hand pressed, truffle scented, extra virgin olive oil with that? Head west about 70 miles and you’ll find it there.

Whisk on a High Wire: entry sixteen

Entry 16

After 30 years in this country rain has become routine but every once in a while it can go overboard. When the rain falls sideways, torrents dump enough to drown insects and canoes are necessary to cross the street mother nature has gotten carried away.

I arrived this morning to ribbons of water wiggling down the driveway and sidewalk of the café. Pools of water lay beneath employees’ hats and coats and customers had trod enough mud in to warrant frequent mopping of the foyer.

Today was lemon meringue pie day for me so I set out making 3 for the week. Apple and pecan pies were made last night by my loyal and completely reliable baker Ada. From the walk-in I grabbed eggs, lemons, butter and shortening. Most of the work is done at the stove so I hurried as not to get in the way of soup prep and other stove top needs.

I blended the eggs with sugar, cornstarch, lemon and a pinch of salt then proceeded to stir it over a moderate flame until well thickened. Adding butter once off the burner I poured the mix into a still warm baked pie crust.

I then cooked some cornstarch with water for stabilizing the meringue and beat the mixture into the sugar/egg white mixture.

Topping lemon filling with meringue is so exotic. Big billows of pure white, perfectly whipped whites, stiff yet really mostly air seem to float on top of the mouthwateringly tart and bright yellow mixture.

As if one mass of interdependent molecules, the meringue will shrink toward the center leaving a quarter inc or so of exposed filling unless it touches the edges of the pie crust.

Placing the meringue on top of the lemon mixture while it’s hot helps to cook the meringue from the bottom up while in the oven it bakes from the top down. I push the time a bit until not only the peaks are golden but the whole meringue is browned somewhat.

In making the peaks by laying a broad, flat spatula on top of the meringue then lifting it straight up I get mesmerized and end up making more peaks than necessary. There is artistry in the process, culinary design and no blow torch can cook meringue as beautifully as the oven.

Once the pies cooled to room temperature, I set one out in the pastry case in the dining room and the other two in the refrigerator. The pies had been off of the baking table not ten minutes when the ceiling above the table collapsed and my baking area lay beneath a mass of sheetrock, roofing and blown in insulation.

The rain had blown into the grates on our evaporative cooler, worked its way down to the attic and dissolved the sheetrock as only sheetrock can do.

The lunch crowd was starting to come in so I set one the cooks to cleaning up the mess once we’d photographed it. I jumped on line to cook but had only 4 burners because the huge pot of mushroom soup was still simmering. The one guy who could carry it away was on clean-up duty in the back.

I slapped some burgers on the broiler, made a Reuben sandwich and set it on the grill then set about making 2 orders of Pad Thai, one with chicken and one with tofu. On a third burner I started macaroni and cheese.

Some commotion was coming from the foyer then the hostess walked up to the window to inform me that some guy was accosting customers as they walked toward the restaurant. He had frightened a woman. Knowing the woman I wasn’t surprised, if any man looked at her she fell apart but as she wasn’t the only one reporting him I figured we’d better check it out.

I flipped the burger, flipped the Reuben, set the mac and cheese on low and slid the Pad Thai pans to the side. I had about 2 minutes to check out the scene.

By the time I got outside medics had arrived, tackled the guy to the ground and injected him with happy juice. He was pretty mellow when they lifted him onto his feet.

His poor elderly father stood helplessly by explaining that his son had gone off of his meds. In this world where we are trying to get everyone off of drugs to no avail why do we get the ones who genuinely need them wanting not to take them. I didn’t have time to ponder the question. I had a medium burger about to turn well done, or not so well done as the case may be.

The cook had cleaned up the ceiling disaster so decided to move the pot of soup to the back area. I can’t lift the monstrosity and felt helpless to assist. He never lets me take the other handle, probably for good and obvious reasons. Whether he’d burned himself out cleaning up the sheetrock or whether this was just our black Wednesday I don’t know but the pan hit the stainless steel table edge as he tried to place the pot on the counter and the pan tilted toward him. All I saw was a wave of mushrooms crest just over his sneakers. In a heartbeat he jumped back to avoid the 200º bath and to his professional credit held fast to the pot. It was a perfect hokey pokey move of “put your whole body in, put your whole body out….”

Guess I was destined to do lunch today. He set about cleaning up his second mess of the day but this one required a lot more than a broom.

If we’d been full in the front room for lunch I’d had been in hot water but as it turned out the most tickets I had up at once were 4 and I handled them OK.

At 3pm the masters of the night came in and got briefed on our day so far. Everyone in the restaurant business is just a little superstitious so the night crew didn’t want to hear too man details. They only hoped that three’s the charm and we’d used them up during our shift.

As I stepped outside I could smell the black locust blossoms. A perfume so powerful it is difficult to imagine the rugged and homely tree emitting such beauty. Steam rose all over the landscape creating a foggy, mystical ambience. Rainbows are frequent this time of year but I hoped there wouldn’t be one. It would just be too cliché.

There is no end to surprises in this business, just respites but you wind up taking them every chance you can. They are the battery chargers.

You don’t dare get smug, though. Behind that back door are endless surprises and just when you think it is safe there is a slightly different tone to the latch as you open it on a cool, still morning that almost imperceptivity gives you a clue, warning you to be prepared but it takes “spidey sense” to catch it.

Whisk on a High Wire: entry fifteen

Entry 15

With each weekend that approaches the baker and I prepare dozens of pancake packets. Zip lock bags of flour, baking powder, salt, sugar. Each contains 4 cups of flour and makes a couple dozen pancakes. Our pancakes melt in your mouth. They are rich and thin though not as thin as a crepe by any means. I hate the thick, dull, dry pancakes most places serve. We can’t please everyone, however.

We had one customer who kept accusing us of undercooking the pancakes. The third time he sent them back we tried to talk to him about them but he walked out shouting that he was going to call the health department for our serving raw food. What can you do with someone like that? Can’t offer him free pancakes, he hates them. They are our most popular breakfast item so I know we didn’t serve them to him undercooked. Unfortunately every person who is unhappy can tell 20 people about their unhappiness. I just hope his friends know what a nut he is and instead of believing him decide to try the pancakes for themselves. If they know him well enough I am sure they know he is that way with other foods as well.

No restaurant can please everyone so as hard as we try to serve a variety and follow our market research there are just a lot of different people living out here. We have people who have never ventured further than 15 miles from home for a meal & we have neighbors and tourists who have tasted the world. We have people who read the menu and leave because it is too unusual. They are looking for a grilled cheese with Velveeta and white bread then we have people who are looking for fresh caught tuna sandwiches not realizing that we are thousands of miles from the nearest swimming tuna. Locals don’t like salmon right out of the river because they are tired of it. Tourists can’t believe we can sell it for so little, that it is local, fresh caught Chinook and they will be talking about it the rest of their lives.

One local restaurant owner complained that our fresh Pacific oysters were too large. The same person always sent something back just to make sure she held her position as having been out here first with her restaurant. I won’t get into what’s wrong with her place.

We are in the middle of a rare time in America. A time of decadence and abundance and I don’t think we are appreciating it like we should. It won’t last, it can’t. The economy will burst and as much as I am called a pessimist for saying so I know I’m not wrong, nothing to do about it but enjoy the ride. When the aborigine man and his nephew drive into the back of the restaurant and pull out a 20lb. salmon that was cruising the river an hour ago and I get to purchase it for a perfectly reasonable price I can’t be anything but an optimist. I get to fillet the red flesh odorless in its freshness. I get to put it on the broiler and sear it just so then drizzle it delicately with a buttery wine sauce and send it out to someone who will take one bite and know exactly what all of this means. Fresh, local before the words become vernacular.

I wish we could be psychic. If so, we’d know what was in the hearts of our customers before they sat down. We’d know if they were sad, mad or glad. Just a little heads up would do wonders to our ability to sooth, remain neutral or celebrate vicariously. We do our best and a great wait-person will consider moods by looking her customers in the eyes as they enter. A great wait staff will be like Tinker Bell, silent and always there but never in the way. I tell the staff to silently move in and out with water, clearing and straightening items, think invisibility. If a customer wants something, you’ll be there whether you are talking with them or not so just be there. Nothing is about you, it is all about the patron. I love when my water glass is empty it gets filled before I realize I’m out. Somehow someone was watching over me without my knowing it. This gives me such a secure feeling in a restaurant. I know that I’m paying for not only good food, I’m getting in return the bonus of having someone take care of me and I can carry on a conversation with the person I’m spending a special evening with in full attention without interruptions. I don’t want to be asked how the food was. I’ll let you know if there is something wrong with it and I just may send a nice note about how nice it was but don’t ask me for compliments. Be there for me and I will be there for you. As for the pancake man, I hope he finds his pancake I think it comes in a yellow box, just add water.

Whisk on a High Wire: entry fourteen

Entry 14

Going to work today I decided I wanted to know if there were any leftover vibrations from yesterday’s energy and I wanted to know if I could make pies with my eyes closed. I’ve always claimed I could so why not try.

It was an interesting exercise because the first waft upon entering, the mix of smells told volumes. A million molecules still whirled from yesterday’s day for moms. Onions dominated followed close behind by floor cleaner. But even the cleaner couldn’t override an undertone of something lurking in the corners and under the equipment where my staff was not bothering to clean. Guess I’ll have to put that on the staff meeting list and concentrate on more pleasant smells like cinnamon. Fried French toast, a most popular item, hung in the mix with fish from last night’s fare.

Buttery Buerre Blanc with reduced scallions still floated around making me glad we didn’t sell French fries for the grease would dominate everything. Grease you can feel in a kitchen even before it drips on your head.

With eyes still closed I walked straight to the walk-in cooler. No surprises here; produce. Produce may look and taste delicious but it doesn’t smell that great. Lettuce and broccoli override chicken, meat, eggs all raw both in substance and smell. No fish smell, that’s a good sign. Still, the sampling was sparse. We had sold out of almost everything. The odors still present were ghosts of food past clinging to ceiling, walls and those neglected corners.

I felt for the butter. Closing the heavy door behind me it was over to the faucet to let the water run warm before washing my hands. Evidently It takes 20 seconds of soaping for “germs” to die so we are taught to sing the “Happy Birthday” song while rubbing soap on our hands. This doesn’t work on viruses but nobody mentions that. No health department posters suggest how to eradicate viruses. We just live with them and go after that which we can.

Around the corner from the hand wash sink is the prep sink. There I ran cold water and filled a small glass. Right below in large bins I found the 50lbs of flour. Reaching my whole arm down through the flour, eyes still closed, I could feel how finely wheat had been ground. This was no longer wheat, though. It was fine white powder with all bran, grain and soul removed. Bleach had turned it white as snow and man had rendered it completely void of nutrition except for the chemical vitamins put into it to make up for that which had been taken out. Seems economically insane to me not to mention the blight on our bodies.

I really have a problem with my conforming to a standard that’s been in place since my birth, fine pastries, tender and flaky. But whole wheat makes lousy pastries, I don’t care what anybody says so I offer whole grain bread and make other concessions for nutrition but not with my pies and cakes. Besides, we don’t eat pastries for their nutrition we eat them for pleasure, pure and simple.

At the baker’s table I insisted there be a window so I could watch the view while kneading dough. My baker appreciates it as much as I do but with eyes closed I find I can imagine any image I want out that space. But I don’t want to go there, I want all of my focus to be on the pie crust so here’s the recipe.

For a two crust pie you place 3 Cups of all-purpose flour in a bowl. This will be generous and you may have some pastry left over but you can make a treat out of it later.

I use almost half the fat as flour. For 3 cups, I use 1 1/4 cups of fat and the fat is half cold butter, half chilled shortening. All butter will render a tougher crust, the shortening helps make the crust flaky. So 1/2 + 1/8 cup butter and the same amount of shortening.

To the flour I put 1 teaspoon of salt. I use unsalted butter. If using salted butter, reduce the salt to 1/2 teaspoon. Stir in the salt.

Add the butter and shortening in pieces rather than large lumps. This will help incorporate the fat faster.

There are three ways to incorporate the fat into the flour. A pastry cutter does a nice job. You hold it by the handle and “chop” into the mixture until it resembles coarse cornmeal.

You can also take 2 knives from your flatware. Crisscross the knives cutting into the mixture. I find this awkward and not as satisfying.

I use my fingertips and with closed eyes it is very sensual. Never squeezing, I lift the flour from the bottom of the bowl and “RUB” the mixture together. Whenever I find a lump, I rub it into the flour working all over the mixture until there are no more lumps, just a crumbly mix that shouldn’t look like a mass, it should be crumbs. Work fast as your fingers will be warming the fat and you want it to stay chilled.

The trickiest part of the pastry in my experience is adding the water. You want to add just enough to be able to form the mixture into a ball but not a sticky ball. The less water the better. Sprinkle water over a little at a time, moving the flour/fat mix with your fingers. Keep working it into a ball, wetting the dry parts. When you can form a ball, remove it and place on a floured work surface.

With the ball of pastry sitting in front of you, take the palm of your hand and working from the far side toward you, smear the pastry. This step isn’t completely necessary but since learning it from reading Julia’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” my pastries have been much improved. This technique is called fraisage. You are really just smearing the fat and flour together.

Gather back into a ball. You can flatten the ball and wrap it in plastic or wax paper for half an hour to chill or go ahead and roll out now. Try both ways and see if you can tell the difference. I’m not sure I actually can.

Keep plenty of flour under the ball and on your rolling pin.

Divide the dough in 2 parts, one a little bigger that the other. Use the larger portion for the bottom crust.

Have your pie plate standing by. Roll the dough into a round by turning the disc as you roll it out. This assures not only a circle but you’ll know whether or not the dough is sticking to your surface. Add flour under the pastry as needed to keep from sticking.

When it is thin, less than 1/8”, lift it and place the pastry in the pie plate. Trim the edges to just about 1/2 inch beyond the pie plate. I use scissors for this but a sharp knife will do.

Add your filling then roll out the top crust and place it over the filling. Trim it to the edge of the pie plate.

Cut a couple of slits in the top crust to allow steam to escape. Working around the edge of the pie plate, roll the edges together so they are even with the inside edge of the pie plate. Alternatively, you can pinch them together then take a fork and press it into the edge all the way around.

Decorate the rolled edges by taking the thumb of one hand and thumb and first finger of the other hand and press the edge with the thumb between the thumb and finger. Work all the way around making a crimped edge.

Place the pie in a hot oven of 450º for 15 minutes. This sets the crust. Turn the heat down to 375º (25º less if using a glass pie plate, not ceramic) and bake until the filling is bubbly. Apple pies can take an hour depending on the thickness of the slices. Cherry pies will take less time.

I was able to do this all without ever seeing what I was doing. All the time my presence in my café changed. Instead of thinking about payroll, schedule, new recipes, staff issues, utility bills, ordering, organizing, cleaning and landscaping I focused on the pie. Pie squared. Being present with a pie is a wonderful experience. We have history with pie and with luck have memories connected to it as well.

I worry, though, that we have created a generation void of pie in the real sense. Will our children think a pie comes frozen, or only in an aluminum tin with a gooey, artificially died filling preserved with chemicals? Will their lives be so frantic that they won’t take time to make food from scratch? Do you think there’s an “app” for pie in the future? Maybe one exists already I’m certainly not up on my apps. Only my apples.

As the pies bake and I sit in the light on my own thoughts I wonder about all that convenience costs us. Perhaps with our eyes closed and our minds opened we can preserve

Whisk on a High Wire: entry thirteen

Entry Thirteen

May with all of its wildflower glory has not let us down. I could not have imagined the pallet this area carries. Hillsides are literally a wash of yellow and green from blooming balsamroots. Splashed among them are purple lupine and a back color of dusty rose and yellow from the last of the desert parsley. Oregon sunshine is just immerging to add more yellow to the mix and as I walk to the café this morning I’m picking up dusty lavender colored herbs to adorn the plates of the untold numbers of people we will serve on this Mother’s Day.

Mother’s Day is the mother of all days in the restaurant business. No day is as busy. This is the one day mothers are almost guaranteed to be taken out for breakfast or brunch. Oh, they may have to fix dinner but for the lucky ones this is an aprons off Sunday.

I walked into work today as innocent as a puppy to a wolf den. The only thing that saved the day was the collective creed of all restaurant workers that says “thou shalt not call in sick on Mother’s Day period.” Unless you are visibly projectile vomiting upon arrival, you will work so at least we knew we’d be well staffed.

What I couldn’t have anticipated was a repeat of opening day. Lines to the street, mad dashes to the walk-in for more eggs than the 6 gallons we’d already prepped. 10 more bags of pancake mix than the ones we’d made for the weekend not to mention almost running out of 2 full cases bacon, Our specials, the spinach quiche and quiche Lorraines sold out promptly followed by our sausage strata and cinnamon rolls.

We disappointed a few mothers but were too busy to worry at the time. From 8am until 3 I was at the 1 square foot grill pouring pancakes and flipping my double dipped French toast as fast as the heat could cook them. When lunchtime rolled around the biggest challenge was keeping sauerkraut meant for Reubens away from the pancakes. Hamburger buns crowded in between both so often came out with a hint of sauerkraut on one side and pancake dough on the other. A quick swipe with a towel could remove the batter but essence of sauerkraut would remain, could be worse with a burger.

Under such pressure, the omelet and egg cook inevitably breaks eggs when flipping them over easy. A dozen or so will end up in the trash and at times 3 will break in a row causing outbursts of four letter words you hope stay in the kitchen.

Plates will get returned at the worse possible time and the table of 13 will halt progress on other tickets until all plates are in the window.

At one point during all of the mayhem I had to run across the parking lot to the storage hut to retrieve some frozen berries. Out of the corner of my eye I spied a mother and child hand in hand. I heard her say to me “Hey, happy Mother’s Day” with a nice smile on her face. I paused and returned the greeting feeling a bit more fulfilled.

Once inside the building I collapsed into a chair. Exercising a meditation a friend taught me, I visualized myself going down into the ground several stories on an elevator. The elevator door opened and I stepped out into a perfect natural space with a cliff overlooking a beautiful valley. I sat on the edge of the precipice with my feet dangling over the abyss and just gazed into the distance. For about 5 minutes I imagined absolute quiet and calm.

I then mentally returned to the elevator and rose only half way up and got out. At this point I rose from the chair, berries in hand and drifted back into the café.

Once I got the berries put away, I removed my apron and saw that I was shaking, so much for my 5 minutes of bliss. I left the place to walk around the block.

Often others see in us that which we cannot and such must have been the case with the schoolteacher who lives up the street. I was halfway into my walk, trying to calm myself from the day’s stress with more customers streaming into the café when I heard a very sweet voice. “Suzi” it said, “why don’t you come into my house and have a glass of wine.” Lawrence of Arabia couldn’t have been more appreciative in finding an oasis.

For about 2 hours and three glasses of wine Joanna and I talked about anything but the restaurant and it was much more than the wine that got me to go back to work for another 7 hours. Her kindness and insight was the best Mother’s Day gift anyone could receive and I’m not even a mother,

or at least not to a child. I’m a mother to a 2,000 square foot establishment that employees 20 people I consider my children, my grown children that is. I’m washing dishes, feeding everyone, counseling, advising, encouraging, understanding, excusing, reprimanding, dolling out consequences, praising, covering, empathizing with, paying, loaning, forgiving, hiring, firing, and pampering every minute that I am present. When I am not present I am trusting, worrying, hoping, and never not thinking about what is going on without me. It is no wonder this day carries its own significance to me. I may be motherless myself but in so many ways I am “everymother”.

I guess the highlight of the day was seeing a mother and her young child sitting at one of our small, two seat tables. The child was intently looking at the menu and I asked her if anything looked good. She said the macaroni did but she didn’t know if it was the way she liked it. I told her how we made it but she was only about 6 years old so I returned to the kitchen and made her a little sample. She tasted it and said that she liked it but liked noodles best. I suggested we make the macaroni and cheese with noodles. Her eyes lit up, she looked to her mom for approval and I proceeded to make noodles and cheese. 2 days later we read about the incident in a local publication. It turns out her mother writes a column about kid friendly establishments in the area. You never know who you are serving so it’s best to treat everyone royally.

We are closed the day after Mother’s Day. Half of it will be spent recuperating, the other half ordering more of everything we sold out of.

365 days until the next one. Happy Mother’s Day everyone and to all the hard working mothers working in the restaurant business, you deserve an extra crown. And oh yea, Dad may fix his own dinner on Father’s day but guess who’ll be making his breakfast, not us. “Get into that kitchen and rattle those pots and pans.” See you next year.