A Recipe for Madness

This is why my life is a mess.

This is the week I decide to start cooking again?  Really?

Sigh . . .

Life got pretty hectic for a while there.  My wife left me, can you believe that?  She quit to run her haunted house full time—the haunt that is supposed to have a character based on me, although they couldn’t find anyone to play her last year.

So I got stuck doing both of our jobs during our busiest time of the year.  I had a headache for two solid weeks after she left.  I sprouted a grey hair over it.  I was more stressed than I’ve ever been in my life.  And we’ve discussed what I do about things that stress me out, yes?  I quit them. 

I didn’t quit my job.  But I thought about it.  I’ve thought about it a lot, actually. 

In July I went out of town every weekend:  the annual Stockton Lake camping trip with Hunter and his family, the float trip I wrote about in my last post, Whiskermania in Louisville where I competed in the Fake Natural Beard category and lost (Ally and Sophie took first and third, respectively), and girls weekend at my aunt and uncle’s property out in Williamsburg. 

Then I had the brilliant idea to start taking secret dance lessons.  In July.  In an un-air conditioned venue.  In St. Louis. 

All the while still playing soccer every Tuesday and Thursday night.

I learned how to dance, all right.  

Alone in the Wilderness with the Butcher's Apprentice

The mist is heavy on the water when we set out, even though it’s well after 9am by the time we hit the water.  The spring-fed river is cold, and the day promises to be hot.  The water is flowing high and fast as our canoes knife downstream between rock formations and vegetation. 

A Knife in the Hand & a House on the Rock

I miss having a knife in my hand. 

            Since I quit the shop, I haven’t been doing much with myself now that I’m a butcher-at-large.

            Nothing really productive, at least.

            Turns out, there aren’t many opportunities out there for meat cutters who can only work nights and weekends. 

            I got a promotion at my day job, which makes up for the lost income.

            And man, having weekends off is really nice. 

            I get to sleep in . . . went to Best of the Wurst . . .

saw the US Women’s National Team play against New Zealand (from the front row!) . . .

I’ve gone on motorcycle rides and hikes . . . and road tripped to unlikely places around the Midwest, taking pictures of weird stuff and drinking great beer (LOTS of beer).

 (Okay that one’s actually alcoholic root beer, but it’s 10% ABV.  Ten percent!)

*                     *                      *

After I leave on Valentine’s Day, Nicole walks into the back room to find Burt crumpled over in tears. 

            “What’s wrong?  What happened?”

            “She’s done.  She quit,” he sobs.

            “What?!”

            “She’s gone.”

            It takes Nicole a moment to gather herself, her thoughts and her words.  And then she explodes.  “YOU!  This is all! . . . You!  And Tommy’s fuckery! . . . And bullshit!  You drove her away . . . this is all your fault!”

            “She said she didn’t wanna trim tenderloin anymore,” Burt cries helplessly.

            “I don’t care what she told you, this is because of you two fuck ups!  You think she wants to clean up after you two every day?!  This is just great.  What’re we gonna do without her??”

           

*                      *                      *

Blood is in the Air

“You’re a butcher?  That’s so hot.”

Butchering has come back into fashion.  It’s now “trendy.”  Butchers are “in vogue” and “sexy.”

            Oh yeah.  Let me tell you.  The meat market is a very titillating place to be.  I mean, there’s really nothing about raw meat that isn’t sexual.  And it’s time to make it known to the whole wide world.  Time to air out the truth of what it’s really like being a meat cutter, like airing out the dirty laundry—and I don’t mean the lacy Victoria’s Secret kind of laundry; I’m talking about the oversized white cotton granny panties with the busted elastic band kind of laundry.  So here’s a brief rundown of a few “hot” meat-girl facts that have surfaced over the last few years since I started this gig: 

The Reason for the Season(ing)

“Thanksgiving’s on a Thursday this year, that’s like the sixth year in a row.”

            Tommy says this every day leading up to Thanksgiving.  Said it last year, too.  And the year before that.  Tommy never tires of his jokes.

            Tommy and I have gotten very comfortable working adjacent one another.  If he doesn’t see me as his equal just yet, at least he doesn’t consider me a subordinate.  More like a slightly demoted peer. 

            “Why don’t you stand on that mat, save your ankles, that’s why it’s there.”

            I always forget about the rubber-coated memory-foam mat on my side of the board; probably because there’s no hope left for my feet or ankles—they hurt constantly, even in orthopedic shoes with custom-fit supports.  I wonder if, on top of the bursitis, I also have plantar fasciitis in my heel. 

Miles hears Tommy’s concern about my extremities and asks, “Why you bein’ so nice to her?”

            Tommy balks, “What’re you talking about?  I’m always nice.”

            “No you not,” Miles responds.  “Normally you a asshole.”  

Goodbye for Now

I am the new Cory.

            With everyone else gone, I got promoted pretty fast.  Max has lime disease so he’s not even helping out for the holidays, I haven’t seen Miles in several weeks, and I (thankfully) have no clue where Luke Johnson is. 

            I’ve been here every weekend since I got back from visiting my baby brother in Maryland mid-October.  I decided to view Burt’s shop as a stepping stone—I’m not sure where I’ll be stepping to—but it’s given me renewed motivation to hunker down and devote my weekends to meat cutting.  Tommy even mentioned talking to Grace about getting me some night hours once the Thanksgiving rush begins.  I will be The Night Butcher!  I love it.  And, it doesn’t hurt that they really and truly need my help right now. 

I stand across from Tommy at the large white cutting board in the front of the store, cleaning and sharpening the two knives that I will use all day:  one small boning knife with a slight curvature, and one large evil-looking scimitar with a twelve-inch blade and a wicked swerve to it. 

            Nicole rings customers out, and charms them with conversation and free samples. 

            “At least you’re quiet,” Tommy mutters under his breath.

            Nicole is going through a divorce right now.

            Tommy keeps calling Nicole a lesbian. 

            He also keeps taking my knives.  He has eight knives on his side of the board—eight.  Yet every time I turn around, one of mine is gone.  So I get a new one, clean and sharpen it, and then he takes that one.  So I take back the first one I had.  This continues ad infinitum.             

Into the Mountains, Part III

This place smells of pot and incense.

There are no doors on the bedrooms, only curtains. 

There are footlockers underneath the beds . . . with no locks on them. 

This is one of the handful of hostels that exist in America.  They are advertised to possess a microbrewery and rooftop garden.  When we arrive we find a large banner stating, “Microbrewery Coming Soon!”  The sign is from 2012. 

 

 

We are the only guests tonight, so we have the run of the . . . house?  Naturally, the first thing we do . . . is jump in the shower.  Because even though we stayed in that fancy resort last night, we were both too tired to bother with hygiene.  Scrubbing down in that narrow wooden stall is the greatest feeling in the world right now.

Before heading out, we wander around the rest of the house.  There’s a great back deck with a hammock, but I want to check out this garden on the roof. 

Well, there’s nothing growing up here, but the view is spectacular.