Knife Work, if You Can Get It

The silence in this room makes me want to scream at the top of my lungs.  The passive-aggressive daggers shooting sideways at me from every eye have my patience and sanity balancing on razor’s edge.  I want to bash this computer monitor onto the floor, sling my laptop out the window like a Frisbee, and watch it fall, fall, fall four floors down.  Then I want to breathe in that blessed fresh chill air . . . let it enfold and consume me . . . step to the edge . . . leap out into it and just . . . fly. 

I am in Corporate Hell. 

            Not to be confused with Hell’s Corporate Headquarters, although I imagine the two would be quite similar. 

            I’m working in a conference room with eight other women.  No, we’re not having a meeting; we have all been displaced from our cubicles during renovations and must work literally side-by-side for two weeks.  My Work Wife and I have been informed that at least two people in this room are dogging our footsteps, keeping spreadsheets on our movements:  what time we arrive, what time we leave, how long our lunch breaks last, how often we use the restroom/get coffee/etc. 

            They don’t talk; not to us, not to each other.  It’s just clack-clack-clack on their keyboards, and occasionally one will try to sneak a peak at our monitors to see if we’re working.  If one of our work phones rings, necks snap in our direction and they eyeball us like we just devoured a batch of aborted fetuses and splatter-shat them out in the middle of the room. 

Slouched down in my chair—done with my work for the day—I’m thinking about something I’m certain no one else is.  I am wondering . . . how many knives should I take with me this weekend?

A Day in the Knife Of . . .

Autumn is settling into St. Louis quite comfortably.  The sky is clear and bright, the air crisp and tinged with the scent of burning wood. 

I haven’t showered since Thursday (it’s Saturday).  Got to my day job yesterday; my undershirt was on backwards and inside out.  I’d only gotten like two hours of sleep the night before, but it was totally worth it.  It was Halloween, after all, my favorite holiday. 

There’s a slight headache forming in the back of my brain while I examine the ever-present circles under my eyes . . . I slept eleven hours last night.  I almost feel hungover, but I didn’t have a drop of alcohol last night.  Drank enough Thursday to cover both days.  That ghost-pepper moonshine—

Ugh.  I’d forgotten about that shit.  And the four-five shots of saké we had at dinner.  No wonder I was putting my clothes on backwards yesterday!  But it was a birthday party for my beautiful, talented, sweet sexy red-headed friend (the girl dating a Schnucks butcher from this post).  I gave her beef jerky.  The next day she posted on my Facebook wall for all the world to see: 

So I promised that I would save some of the Most Incredible Jerky Ever for my boyfriend but I thought I would have myself a nibble or two.  I was kind of worried that I might not be able to stop at just a little but decided it was worth the risk.  Surprisingly enough I only had one piece!  And it was not because I exerted any kind of self-control, either, because honestly I’m not wired for that.  I think I . . . I think I Respect it.  Your jerky is so good I have developed emotion for it. 

            My response?

            “It’s always better when you can make it last longer . . . and longer . . . and longer . . .”

            “I’ve heard that!  Your meat makes me a believer.”

            Also, “Meat Emotions” would make a great band name. 

Crave

 I woke up with the strangest craving today. 

            I awoke in a place that was not my own . . . a place not unfamiliar to me. 

This craving . . . rumbled in my gut, forcing me bolt upright in bed.  Loud, deliberate, and insistent, I could not ignore it.  I had to heed its call.

Conversations with The Butcher's Apprentice

 

 

The Butcher’s Apprentice Stops in to Grab some Jerky and Talks with Tommy

“How come you don’t work here anymore?”

            “Because a sprained foot doesn’t heal in two weeks.  If I can’t stand on it for one hour, I definitely can’t stand and walk and carry heavy shit for EIGHT hours.”

            I’ve been saltier than usual lately.  Must be to do with this Franken-Foot that I’ve injured for the hundred and eighty thousandth time.  It’s not even a re-injury, either; it’s a new one.  How many ways can one person fuck up the same goddamn appendage?  I sprained the “capsule” on top of the ligament connecting my big toe to the rest of my foot . . . while playing barefoot soccer, after attending the Real Madrid v. Inter Milan game . . . where I may have drank several pints of beer.  Allegedly.  Lesson learned:  from now on, shoes must be worn during any and all periods of questionable sobriety.  

All Trussed Up and Ready to Go

Seems to me that this blog used to be a lot sexier, and I’m not just referring to the wiener jokes.  You already know that I love me a big slab of meat that just lasts and lasts.

            The passion went out of my cooking when the passion went out of my life.  Making food is romantic to me; a lot of love goes into what I make.  It is a very intimate experience, creating something that fills a void and satisfies an insatiable craving. 

            A little of that romance seems to have faded. 

The flame has died down. 

I got lazy—cooking crock pot meals every week, falling back on old favorites—stopped challenging myself.  When my Green Bean Delivery arrives, sometimes I just make a salad and steam some vegetables; I don’t even take the time to look up a recipe.  I don’t even bother mixing up any salad dressing even though I have the ingredients for it and know how to from memory; I just splash a little balsamic over the lettuce and heirloom tomatoes.   

It’s been long enough. 

I think it’s time to bring the passion back into my life.

Time to relight the fire.

Balls.

Hello everyone. 

            Today I’d like to talk about balls.

            That’s right, this week it’s all about balls.

            Balls of all shapes, sizes, textures, and consistencies.  Come along; we’re going on a journey together.  Bring beers.   

The Bridge

“The next time a guy wants to date you, you should bring him here.  If he can’t navigate this menu, it’s a clear sign he’s not right for you.”

“Excuse me?  The next time a guy wants to date me, he’ll be the one bringing me here, not the other way around.  Cuz those days are long gone.” 

“You know what I meant; this cheese page is a good test to see whether or not someone can keep up with you food-wise.  And I know that’s important to you.”

He’s right, as he usually is.  Hence the reason I call him my Spirit Guide.  I can’t quite manage to bite back my retort, but I quietly mutter it under my breath.  We are in our fancy goin’-out clothes, after all—I have to at least try show a little class—because despite what you’ve heard, this knife-wielding tomboy cleans up pretty well and rocks a maxi dress like it’s nobody’s business. 

Sam ignores my comment although he hears every syllable, says instead, “If I’m not mistaken, I am a boy and you are a girl, and aren’t you taking me out at this very moment, or did I read your email wrong?”

“This is different.  We’re friends.  And it’s your birthday.”  His forty-first birthday, to be exact, though you’d never know it to look at him.