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.
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