4 posts from July 2008

I blink. My eyes refocus on a hunk of lemon chiffon that has just hit the floor with a resounding "smack!" I grip the knife harder and decide whether to let in seep into the doughy holes of the perforated rubber flooring, or snag a nearby dish towel and make the janitor's job a little easier. The chatter, and clank of the bakery in the back is barely audible under the cloud of conversation, laughter and orders being hailed by tired wait-staff and the elite, lined up for their tables for two.

My position is called "Pastry-Technician" a laughable title, mighty difficult to convey without smiling or feeling the need to tap dance an excuse... Pastry Tech or as I like to call it, Cake Slinger, is the position allotted to those whose job it is to decorate or "plate" an enormous piece of cake (or made to disguise a less desireable piece for consumption) with an array of sauces and "edible tchotckies" such as chocolate curls, chocolate dipped espresso beans, lemon wedges etc etc etc. A job most commonly sought after by aspiring graphic designers, wayward studio artists, or the nascent retail/food associate who is roped into it from previous experiences as a young diner. But waste NO TIME in plating, or trying effectively recreate a Wassily masterpiece with chocolate sauce, because expedience is key when you have a Saturday night shift (prom nights in May were a personal hell of mine). There's two of you, and hardly room for both (think of the width of a bowling lane, sans gutters). Knives fly as you dose them with scalding hot water before attempting a mousse torte or the new york cheesecake. Some people watch in horror as the plates flip upside down while I defy gravity and let the plate come to the cake, and not the other way around (for easy placement). Frostings flop, insides crumble, decorations wilt with a glance.. and you are there at the mercy of time and space to make it all work. Make it all work fast. I think I could get into the restaurant business. The rush and intensity-- the versatility and movement you must possess is addictive. At the end of the night we all flop around the cushy booths in the lounge, clumsily clutching a cocktail and dribbling out the main events of the night through tired eyes, and lazy smiles. It's an amazing bond you have with servers, dishwashers, cooks, management alike as you all brave the clientele of the evening. A wealthy buffoon, an anxious wife, a bevy of bubbling blonds...All of them

Boccone

The summer after completing my first year of college, my mother pushed me from the moment I stepped off the plane from NC to get a job. And I worked tirelessly on perfecting a resume and cover letter for several under-whelming positions. I cannot recall how exactly I came upon this strangely titled position, but the notable restaurant on the West side was asking for a new baker and pastry technician. I remember I had visited my friend Brian the night I received the call for an interview and raced back into town to prepare a suitable "suit". The kind gentleman who interviewed me was only there for a few more weeks before he and his wife moved away to finish her grad school degree. I was left in the hands of a few embittered, veteran techs, and a hilarious, male comedian duo of bakers in the back.

I had never learned anything about baking save for a few lessons at Safeway and was totally unprepared for the finesse and grace necessary to frost an entire gateau. It was trial by fire, and several desserts made their way to the same holey (holy?) floor before they ever made an appearance under the gleaming deli-case glass. I remember the Crisco grease oozing onto my fingers as I practiced row after row after row of shells, rosettes and cursive lettering. The heat from the summer was intensified by the close proximity of 450 degree ovens, baking sheet after sheet of meringues, tart shells and shortbreads. Sweat ceremoniously trickled down my neck and collected in the collar of my chef's coat-- an oversized, thick white shirt that hid any inappropriate attire (tank top,  colored T) from view. Perhaps they should instate this as a punishment for girls at NS with tanks at under 3 finger width..

By the end of the summer, and after months of 40 hour weeks I became confident in my skills, memorized hundreds of recipes and could make a killer panna cotta in under 10 minutes flat. I knew all the tricks and I felt emboldened as I left for my second year of college.

So here I am. Two years of private school teaching in my past (a small detail that drops the jaws of several of my coworkers.. why?) I am slinging cakes once again, this time--exclusively in the front and with the help of a whole new feeling--whole new staff of people who are far kinder, cooler and harder working than I remember. My anxieties have vanished and now I am clean, efficient and feeling affable. Tickets may line our entire 16 foot counter, and customers may glare and demand more creme anglaise! But I am at ease, wielding my knife--in a space no larger than a modest walk in closet... and though a few more pieces of chiffon may hit the floor I don't care. It's not the end of the world, and most importantly it's nothing as intense as a room full of tweens.

Culture Shock has never truly hit me in foreign countries. I've experienced the most socio-culture jarring from returning to the States, in the place that I once considered "familiar".

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There is something very comfortable about your own personal history. Especially one that somehow supersedes your current feelings of success. I left Portland an accomplished student, an emboldened leader and a tenacious social activist with loads of confidence, goals and ideals. Returning I feel beaten up by my failures, way more fragile and yet far more mature than when I left (even two years ago). As I grow older, I being to recognize my previous invincibility, and take it upon myself to get back to what was good about those years.. in doing so, I've tried to rekindle connections with old friends, apologize for distance with patient, present listening, and assist my relatives while learning my own personal history.
Enter my grandmother...
... who has always proclaimed that the Sundeleafs have danger in their blood. There isn't enough time here to go into all the magnificent details about Jonna Lou.. but simply stated, she's the most charismatic, vivacious and lethal 70 year old you've ever met. She'll swear, spit, and drink; louder, bigger and greater, and then the next minute, sing the sweetest jazz melody, recite prose with an accomplished orator's ease, and bake the most delicate boysenberry pie--SO good it makes your toes curl. With her contagious laughter, irresistible stories, and cunning glances, you're sure she's been a movie star at some point in her life, or at least a part time USO act forty years ago... She tells the story of our relatives who were imprisoned in the Philippines Internment camp with tenacity and confidence. You can feel the heat of the soil and the sweat of the guards.. Soon after I've probed for details of her childhood on Friday Harbor, San Juan Islands, Washington: wearing bobby socks to all the dances, and marrying my grandfather, a man who may not have sported two left feet, but has taken to mum growing over two stepping. I sit with her in the cool sun room of her home in Milwaukie and we share family stories, or rap about the difficulty of the Friday crosswords, or that b*tch Rachel Ray (whom we both can't stand.. but secretly covet her easy, inexpensive recipes).

I have relished these unforeseen afternoons with her in light of the delayed trip, and the whole of sinking into a different personal history before I go and discover my roots in another part of the world.
 

NW Haida Tribe inspired image

Diffrence: Drivers in Portland are kind, and inefficient. As I go to cross the road, as if I were crossing a busy road in Wicker Park, I pace the stream of cars and begin my walk, only to have the mini van at the end of the line, just before my window, screech to a stop. I am so stunned I stand there, in the middle of the road for several seconds while this balding, older gentleman waves like a mad man from behind his steering wheel for me to cross. I awkwardly wave a "Thank you" and pass his front bumper to find my footing on the sidewalk. Weird. Driving is the biggest difference from here and Chicago. People go out of their way to make your merging, crossing, parking so much easier.. but when you anticipate the uninterrupted traffic, it becomes inefficient and potentially unsafe. I have stopped in the middle of the road several times out of shock that not one, but three cars had halted for a tricky maneuver.
Biking is also different. While I don't consider Portland to be a safer biking city, the hubris of bikers and clout they carry on the road is definitely more present here. Bikers weave, run stop signs, huddle in packs before bars, and glare at your main brand track bike with pirated spoke cards.
Just last week a bicyclist assaulted a man in a car! The man driving on a road laden with stop signs drove beside a bicyclist who proceeded to run every sign. The man, an avid bicycle rider himself, stopped the biker and told him he needed to set a better example for bike riders everywhere by obeying the traffic laws. At this point the rider became surly, and eventually rammed his bike into the mans car, threatening him.. This was hot news in Portland last week, and something not entirely unexpected.
Biker v. Driver

Hildegarde

The other obvious difference, driving a Subaru is a kind of an Oregonian calling card. Every make, model, year, and liberal bumper sticker combination graces the streets of Portland. Is it law to drive a Subaru during your stay in the Rose City? With it's smaller frame, spacious interior and affordable gas mileage, every dog owning, mt. hood camping, rei member card sporting, green lovin' Portlander seems to get their hands on this Japanese sedan. Most are manufactured in Lafayette Indiana, so must travel over 2,000 miles to the lush Willamette Valley where they commonly stay on the road for 10 years plus..outliving many of the coffee shops and garage bands that crop up every year.
To own one is to Love one...

I've spent more than my welcomed time in the Ugly Mug and need to dash to Powell's to look up books on camping in Sweden but I'll probably just curl up in the Blue Room.

Monday July 14th, 2008

It's 6am, the day I leave for Seattle and the eve of my flight to London.
I have scheduled my hostel for two nights and made additional contacts
to my relatives in Stockholm. I had a whirlwind of errands under my belt
during a 12 hour rush  Sunday and I have everything I (think I) need for my trip...

except for my passport.

I've turned over/inside out every container, backpack, envelope, portfolio, coffee mug
looking for the yellow envelope that has been the permanent home to my passport
for over four years. The envelope has never left a particular box, and never been out
of my site, until now. I had glimpsed the yellow envelope just before it was crammed
into the back of my Subaru, yet maintained an eerie feeling of unrest until that
Saturday afternoon when I went searching for it. I immediately called Becky and
frantically asked if she could search her place (my previous residence for the month
of June) for the important folder. Of course, the yellow envelope I had reassuringly
secured in my car was for something completely different, an insurance form and a
letter from North Shore thanking me for my time during the initial interview. In the
mess of all of my things, I was reminded of an article Adam (he and Tommy are
friends of mine who are concerned with living without "stuff") mentioned about a
man who pars down his belongings to 100 things.
Here is the article from the RedEye: http://redeye.chicagotribune.com/red-062508-things-main,0,2507304.story

Early Monday morning, after dreading in all of my Catholic guilt, the impending cancellation of my trip, and the difficult logistical dance I would perform to get a new passport in record time I received another call from Becky. The passport was still missing and we commiserated over the phone while crafting a new plan. She has always been so good about calming me down, and organizing my thoughts during the rush of particularly hectic moment. She has a way of seeing like no one else I've ever met, and hearing her voice on the phone always makes me smile...I racked my brain for several minutes while listening to her rifle through more and more of her own boxes and storage.
After recollecting other details about the envelope she happened upon a bag shoved into the corner of a closet she goes into every three years or so. Suddenly. She found it.

Among the dusty mannequins, old floor lamps, boxes of photographs was an errant Whole Foods bag that had been neglected in the packing process, because of its odd location. Becky was kind enough to stow away my things for the Good-Bye BBQ while I was teaching at camp, with masterful organizational skill, cramming everything (delicately) into an unbelievably small space. Having not touched the bag myself in a few weeks I didn't remember it, and because it was the *only*  brown bag in my assortment of belongings, it remained unknown to us.

The passport is now en route to Portland where my mother, previously clenching hands and jaw, is rejoicing at her daughter's extended stay. I'm happy to be parked in my hometown for an additional two weeks before leaving. It'll give me some time to job hunt, and hammer out some details on camping and hiking in Sweden. It's also allowed me a chance to connect with my oldest relatives in Sweden and hopefully secure a visit to my ancestors related to Carl Larsson
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carl_Larsson

This whole experience has been eye opening for me. I have spent the last two months flying through my daily activity, cramming every last minute with a meet-up or a get together, or some other sundry social thing. And/or favors or jobs in fear of running out of money for the trip...now I'll be out way more money than intended for the replacement ticket. So strange/funny how the world works.. I haven't had the time to sink into planning or even just relaxing. I'm appreciative of the additional income afforded to me by the NSCDS camp, but insodoing lost hours and hours of preparatory time...

In the Quaker faith there is this term used called Way Opens.

Here's a post from a Quaker faith-based blog. Though I don't consider myself religious, it has an interested pique that can be related to here:
[Way Opens has] become almost a Quaker cliché.

I've just arrived in Portland after a long day of 900 miles from Salt Lake City, Utah to my home town. This is the genesis of this blog, and will cover the details of my trip to Sweden.. and the preparations before. Onward!