The . . . Baker's Apprentice?

A woman who is very special to me recently celebrated her 70th birthday, and I wanted to give her a very special present.  I consider her my surrogate grandmother, but don’t ever tell her that—her grandbabies are all toddlers, not pushing 30—she considers herself my surrogate mom.  We used to work together (she is now retired), we are in the same yoga class and Bunco group, and I helped her cross off three items from her Bucket List:  first tattoo (she got a teddy bear wearing a pink bowtie on her ankle), first ride on a Harley (of course), and first hot air balloon ride.  She was there for me when my grandma passed away, and I was there for her when her sister-in-law (and fellow Bunco player) passed. 

Since I can’t knit her a scarf or sew her a quilt, I made her food.  That’s my craft; that’s my skill; that’s the only thing I know how to create.  Plus, giving a perishable gift means that she won’t have just another piece of crap lying around her house that she had to make space for.  She is already the knick knack queen; the last thing she needs is . . . well, more things.  I don’t get to bake much—I’m not much of a sweets person and eating dessert isn’t helpful when I need to be in goalkeeper “beast mode”—it’s something I’m good at but would like to be better at, so I made homemade truffles. 

How We Do Irish

I love the drive through my neighborhood Saturday mornings on my way to the shop.  Everything is still quiet, just waking up.  A few of the businesses are open but empty; the bar lights are on, but there is no one serving.  Well-dressed church stragglers scramble across the street to mass, perhaps for a wedding or baptism. 

            Today is not one of those days.

            Today is St. Patrick’s Day, which is bigger than Christmas for residents of Dogtown.  The neighborhood has been chaos since Friday afternoon.  The shamrocks painted on the roads have received a fresh coat of green; the banners on every lamppost that have tattered and torn over the last year have been replaced; Johnny on the Spots have materialized at every corner; dumpsters large enough to park a tow truck inside of have cropped up at random intersections, and I’m excited to see that this year they are artfully and brightly decorated instead of their usual forest green tinting.  Soon the clans will arrive, proudly flying their colors on the breeze; the dancers shall stomp; the pipes will wail their battle cries; and the streets shall run brown with the libation—nay, the lifeblood—of our homeland, that lush green country far across the sea.

Have Knives, Will Travel - Part III

DAY 3

Valentine’s Day.

I didn’t want to miss any of the cows today so I made Eli set his alarm extra early.  When it goes off, I mutter, “Five more minutes Mom . . .”

Eli gets out of his bed, stomps over to the futon where I lay, and whacks me in the head with a pillow. 

Happy fucking Valentine’s Day. 

Have Knives, Will Travel - Part II

DAY 2

 

There is nothing to kill the second day. 

The whole day is spent in the packing room, breaking down and packaging beef—no orders for pork to fill today—and of course, harassing and haranguing each other every chance we get.  I settle right in to wrapping; it’s hard for me not to gravitate to the grunt work, it’s what I’m used to.

Travis is older, wears cammo overalls (which I love), and works quietly.  He’s the kind of person I’d hang out with at one of my biker bars back home.  He is using their Dick Machine to stuff one-pound packages of hamburger.  (It’s not really a Dick Machine, but it has the same kind of nozzle, and in my mind I can’t help but identify it with our sausage stuffer.)