The Way Things Go

The title of this post kind of seems like something out of that movie “Babe”.

Okay, great way to start off. Let’s see, where was I.

Ah yes. So things are moving. I feel like I talk about this a lot. This state of moving. Recently I was reading my sister-in-law’s post about her baby figuring out how to crawl, and how frustrating it is when you can’t go where your body wants to go. That’s understandable for a human being. Especially when you face plant into your own spit up. (I mean, we’ve all been there, right?)

But as I was saying, since the last time I mentioned it, I was going to be transitioning into my new role as a cook at the pastry shop. Sometimes you put the cart before the horse in the midst of exciting transition (and beer).

We are still working things out. It is hard to know how these things will work. How to staff, what your food costs and overhead might look like. You have to weigh out your options. Some, much heavier than others.

I am though, very much excited. I love that I can hash things out without fear of someone lashing back. I love feeling confident. I love feeling like I was built for something. Even when the moving gets slow, it’s still progress. Am I right?

Yes. I think so too.

Also, I’ll be flying to Atlanta, Georgia later this week to hang with my dad for a big Spring shindig he’s throwing. I am in charge of the menu and most of the cooking as he claims I cook “the second best gumbo in Portland”. And while that’s 70-80% true, I’m not gonna bother refuting it either.

It’s been a while since I’ve been to Atlanta. Since before I was married, which makes it sound so much more dramatic. Like, “all those years ago…”

But really, about 4 1/2-5 years, give or take. I have sentimental feelings for Georgia. I lived there for a year. I’ve never cooked in that capacity for Southerners though. I’m a little nervous. I think I can pull it off though. Given the right amount of good bourbon and pork, anything is possible.

Thank you, though. For keeping up with me. And following me (not creepily, though).

It means a lot to have folks read things that I write from time to time, though I know you have plenty of options.

I will end with a conversation from the movie “Babe”, because now I can’t stop seeing it in my head. It is between the farmer’s mean cat and Babe, the pig:

Cat: Alright, for your own sake, I’ll be blunt. Why do the Bosses keep ducks? To eat them. So why do the Bosses keep a pig? The fact is animals that don’t seem to have a purpose really do have a purpose. The Bosses have to eat. It’s probably the most noble purpose of all, when you come to think about it.

Babe: They eat pigs?

Cat: Pork, they call it – or bacon. They only call them pigs when they’re alive.

Babe: But, uh, I’m a sheep pig.

Cat: [giggles] The Boss’s husband’s just playing a little game with you. Believe me, sooner or later, every pig gets eaten. That’s the way the world works. Oh, I haven’t upset you, have I?

[....chuckles softly]

ps. y’all know they don’t eat Babe, right? Okay. Cool. Just making sure we’re all on the same page.

Happy 295th, New Orleans!

It’s not “N’awlins”, however much you want it to be.

It’s not “New Or-LEENS”, unless you need it to rhyme in a song or poem.

It’s New Orleans. Pronounce without over-pronouncing. Then, you might be close.

I had all this stuff written, but it didn’t feel right.

Today, I just wanna remember these good things about my most favorite city on Earth.

When Hannah came to visit me for the first time, she took a red-eye into New Orleans. Our hotel wasn’t ready till 4pm, so we took naps on the benches in front of the cathedral. Then we went and got beignets from Cafe du Monde and sat by the river, in the grass. It was perfect.

My 21st birthday was spent handing out toiletries and what not to the homeless. It was cold. I was naive then, but it was meaningful for me at the time. I’m sure they didn’t mind. I went to a jazz club off Bourbon. “Hey man, there’s pride on Bourbon Street!”

Being the designated driver for some family members the December after Katrina. It was a ghost town until you hit Bourbon. Weird times, but memorable. Luckily, no one threw up in my Aunt’s SUV. Also, we came back home with a bike wheel.

There was the pigeon that pooped on my dad’s head, after him teasing that it was probably going to happen to me.

There’s the many field trips there as a kid. To the Audubon Zoo and the aquarium and IMAX.

When my dad was married on a steamboat. (That happened to be a surprise…)

One of my prom’s happened on a steamboat. Can’t remember if it was the Creole Queen or the Natchez.

The many random trips from Hattiesburg to New Orleans. Or for that matter, any random trip to New Orleans.

Cafe du Monde.

Tujague’s.

Abita on the street.

Anything alcoholic on the street.

Poboys.

Daiquiris. Paired with music that’s loud as hell.

But really, this city is so much more than the sum of any one person’s experience. And if you’ve been at any point, you’ll understand.

I hold it close. And at times, quite literally, wear it on my sleeve.

Happy Birthday, New Orleans.

And thank you. Have one on all of us.

(preferably a sazerac…)

 

 

 

ps.

And here’s to you, Alan Richman.

Playing Different Instruments

If I want to be honest with myself, I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing.

Sometimes, I get to cook for big groups of people. I get really excited for about 20 minutes, and then I get scared.

Because I think deep down that I have no idea what I’m doing. That I can’t cook and that I’m fooling everyone around me.

This too, is fleeting.

Seldom is anything scary, not worth it. Making big moves is hard. But you grow and shed your shell time and time again. Like a crab during its seasons, realizing it needs a bigger place to dwell.
In some part of my brain, I rationalize my fear with fact and experience. “You’re really not that great.”

And while it’s humbling, it’s not helpful.

I don’t like being around people who constantly think they’re terrible human beings. It’s funny. We generally end up laughing at it, but it’s just not true. Most people I know are good, though we all think about terrible things from time to time. It’s just what we do.

So when I find myself getting beat up by yours truly, I have to leave the situation. I sleep on it and wake up. Much like restarting a machine that’s running shitty, only to realize you were the one who needed to flip the switch. (And sometimes, we need someone on the outside to see it, too.)

When you come out of it, you feel like you can do anything.

And you can.

I mean, there are the rules and laws and guidelines written by people, but they don’t define you. No one can define you. If they do, don’t listen because they are filled with their own battles. You have enough on your own.

I say “easier said than done” here, because I don’t really know what else to say. I go back and forth with this stuff.

I’ve been listening to this podcast with Marc Maron and Louis C.K. It’s long winded, but they battle a lot with the human condition and their own need to self-depricate. In a weird way, it’s comforting to hear people doubt themselves so much because you don’t feel alone. You feel like someone is finally sitting next to you on the bus. (Not that that’s something people necessarily want in public transportation these days.)

They were talking about being jealous of each others jokes. And Louis C.K. talking to Maron said, “Well, yeah, you play a different instrument…”

It hit me like a sandbag had landed on my chest. I felt the weight because I knew this all along. I think we all know, to some extent, what we need to know about ourselves. But we do need the tools to get them out. Sometimes that tool is listening and letting something soak in.

Hannah often tells me, “I have no idea how you do what you do. There’s no way I could remember those orders.”

As I respond, “There’s no way I could be in grad school. All those papers. Gross.”

Same with a mom or dad who stays home to take care of their babies. I have no idea how they do it. But they do. And they’re so good at it.

We all have these different instruments, ya see? Some of these things fit us as though we were built from its cloth.

Other things, we learn to accept its defeat. We’ve all been there. It’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up. Remember, entire civilizations have failed and fallen — just because I completely screwed up that gnocchi will not make me kick cooking to the curb.

But whatever it is.

Use your instrument.

Keep it close.

Take care of it.

Because regardless of being your own worst enemy,

you’re damn good at it.

And above all,

…listen to yourself.

Rumi (And Finding Your Own Path)

In the beginning of Rumi’s poem, Spring Giddiness, there are two lines that have stuck to my bones.

[...]Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

And in the context of the poem, which I suggest you take a look at, Rumi is forming this exciting bit of life [out of some dark, empty place] where one picks up instruments instead of academic books. The moments following are filled with awe and romance and spontaneity. We are left with a fleeting stanza that if we lose what makes us feel alive, we will fade along with it. 

At least that’s what I get from it. And really that’s all that matters. Poetry is what you get from it. What you feel from it. I don’t read it often, but I say these lines to myself from time to time. Some days louder than others, and often when I talk to people who have no idea what they want to do.

All the while the world rushes by me and I get caught up in myself. (Shocking, I know!) I think about what I’m trying to get people to understand about me, me, me — and whether or not it’s actually important.

That line, “There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground” — it’s huge for me for a lot of reasons.

When I think about cooking, I seem to have this one idea of what it looks like. Smears on plates. Little flowers. Drops of this and that. Tweezers. Screaming. Scallops. Foie Gras. Etc.

I think about what it would take for me to get there — at least to be showy enough for some critical praise.

But then I settle back into myself and realize that I don’t really want that.

So this notion of cooking starts to transform in my head.

That there are hundreds of ways you can present a plate of food to someone.

There are hundreds of ways to work with food and nourish other human beings.

You aren’t stuck.

Which is easier said than felt, right? That middle place where you’re trying to figure out what to do next.

For the lucky people who get to do what they love and make millions, so be it. But it’s not realistic for most of us. It’s best you find a way to enjoy the normality of life. Where nothing extraordinary turns into day in, day out. And to also feel deeply those special times when you have more than you need, or are in the company of good folk.

There’s this James Taylor song that says something along the lines of, “…the secret of life is enjoying the passage of time.”

But we are future dwellers and past dwellers. We wonder where other roads might have taken us and where tomorrow might lead us. We burn bridges for good and bad reasons. We’re all just trying to figure that out, I think.

I try to catch these little bits of wisdom when I can. From other cooks, my elders and even little ones — it’s in the in-between that things get really messy.

…and that’s okay.

Daylight, full of small dancing particles
and the one great turning, our souls
are dancing with you, without feet, they dance.
Can you see them when I whisper in your ear?
All day and night, music,
a quiet, bright
reedsong. If it
fades, we fade.

 

 

Don’t be afraid to find your own path.

The Roast Beef Poboy (An Ode to my Sister for her Birthday)

Today is my sister’s birthday. Like any proper Southerner who resides in the lower parts of Mississippi and Louisiana, you just grow up eating em’.

And I wanted to write about the roast beef poboy in particular, because it is her sandwich. Any time we pass through our old stompin’ grounds of Picayune, Mississippi — we make it a point to get one at Frostop (pronounced: Frost-top or as my wife Hannah would call it, Fro-stop).

I’ve written about Frostop before, so I’ll make its mention brief just by saying it was our hole-in-the-wall french fry/burger/poboy joint. A must have if ever heading across the plains of South Mississippi.

Because this is sort of a foodie blog, and because it’s my sister’s birthday, I’m gonna lay down my recipe for the “how-to” on roast beef poboys.

Also, I’ve yet to find a good one online. They exist, but are scarce and deserve much more recognition than they usually get.

There are two things important to this sandwich that have nothing to do with roast beef: poboy bread and mayonnaise.

If you don’t like either, this sandwich isn’t for you.

Good poboy bread is hard to come by unless you find yourself along the poboy belt. Leidenheimer makes the best. But you can’t really get it much else than Louisiana.

So, you do what I do and find a Thai bakery. Look for Banh Mi bread. It should be crusty, but incredibly light in the middle. Baguettes won’t do. They’re too hard. French bread at Kroger/Fred Meyer/Safeway/Wal-Mart won’t do. It’s too much white stuff. (In a pinch, buy it and take out a bunch of the filling.)

The bread is merely for holding together roast beef and condiments. It should absorb said gravy and act solely as a vessel. It should almost disappear among the drippings and shreds of roast beef.

Mayonnaise. For this, I’m thinkin’ either Blue Plate or Duke’s. I’m gonna side with Blue Plate because I have a soft spot for it. It’s what I grew up with, but Duke’s is damn good too. If you wanna be fancy and make your own, by all means, do it!

You must use copious amounts of mayo. You will think me later when the gravy/mayo emulsification is dripping down to your elbows. It sounds dirty, but it’s the truth.

(I’m not great at recipes, but I’ll do my best.)

Here’s what you need:
3-4lb chuck roast, preferably in big, flat chunks
1-yellow onion, small diced
3-large peeled carrots, sliced 1/4 inch thick
4-6 garlic cloves, sliced thin
2 -3 quarts Beef stock, preferably homemade
(sometimes I use half beef stock/half chicken stock and top off with water, in a pinch)
Worcestershire sauce
3T canola oil
Bay leaf, or two
Kosher salt & freshly ground black pepper

Note: Here’s the bummer part for you — I like to let the meat marinate over night — and then after it’s cooked, I let it sit in the fridge’ over night again. But it’s worth it, trust me.

Here’s what you do:
Without piercing through the meat, make little incisions and stuff in your sliced garlic all over the place. Salt generously and add a few grinds of black pepper till coated. Wrap it all up, stick it in your fridge and come back to it 8-24 hours later. (Or whatever, you don’t have to do this, but I think it helps season the meat more thoroughly.)

The next day, get a big dutch oven (or big heavy bottomed pot) going with your canola oil. Get it sorta shimmering and smoky. Like you’re about to cook a big steak. Brown all that meat off on both sides and set aside. After all of your meat is done, throw in your onion and deglaze with a little bit of your beef stock (or a little water.) Enough to get that good fond off the bottom of the pan. If there’s too much black crud and oil in there, drain that out first.

After your onions cook for about 6-8 minutes, toss in your carrots. Add the meat back into the pot, jack the heat up and pour in your beef stock till it reaches the top of the meat, like a little meat iceberg. This is when I add seasoning. Salt. Pepper. About 4-5 big dashes of Worcestershire sauce, and bay leaves. Bring it up to a simmer, reduce the temperature with lid on until you get a nice, slow bubble.

Let that cook for a solid 3-4 hours, or until it pulls apart easily.

Take out the meat in as big of chunks as you can and set them aside on a cutting board. Strain your braising liquid, but keep some of the carrots for your final product.

Slice your cooled down roast. Most likely it’ll shred to bits, but this is pretty much the whole idea. A lot of folks call this “Debris” poboy for such reasons. Once all the meat is cut, take half of your braising liquid that you have strained, and add all the meat back into it. Cover and put in fridge overnight. Take the other half of your braising liquid and continue to reduce it on the stovetop. You can do this the same day or the day before. Keep reducing till you’re left with half of it. It should be pretty dark and really flavorful. It might be a little salty, but you can always add water if need be.

When you’re ready to eat, slice your poboy bread and layer it thick on both sides (or just one) with mayo. Heat up roast beef in its braising liquid. Scoop out with tongs onto your bread. The wetter the better. Take some of that braising liquid you reduced earlier and spoon some on top. Top with shredded lettuce, tomato (I usually skip this part because…why?), and some folks like thinly sliced pickles. It’s up to you though. Stick it in the oven to warm the bread through and serve/consume heavily.

This is a little long winded, but it needs to be done right. It’s a sandwich that deserves 600 words, at least my word count says so.

A special Happy Birthday to my sister. Sending so much love your way.

…and if you get the chance, eat one for me.

My Letter to Yelp (And the Aggravated Masses)

Dearest Yelp (and its users),

First off, I just wanted to write and say that I believe you were created for good.

You seemed to have had the right idea about helping businesses get real reviews from real customers.

I was once a Yelper. I put the livelihood of a cafe/restaurant in my hands. I rated them out of five stars and added my two cents about food and service. After all, we are entitled to our own opinions.

image courtesy of NPR media

The problem is, people started writing terrible reviews. People would give 1 out of 5 stars to a restaurant because they didn’t offer vegan dishes. People would slam counter service and waitstaff because they don’t understand the difference in overhead.

You write the saddest things about not getting enough napkins, or having to refill your own water cup.

You were bummed when the chef was not present to answer your question about the saturated fat content of your curly fries.

So you wrote a bomb review.

“I was upset at the timing of my salad…”

Meanwhile, the manager of said restaurant is getting talked to by the owners.

“Hey man, we need to work on customer service…”

Okay.

I’ve watched business owners get eaten up with Yelp reviews. They are so incredibly hard on themselves and pass it on down. Misery loves company. (And sh*t runs downhill, right?)

Oh, and what’s up with taking away good reviews when business owners and chefs decide to not give you (Yelp) money? Or paying for good reviews and taking away the bad?

You are a corrupt machine, like so many others.

And you’re taking yourselves too seriously.

You shouldn’t review a restaurant after one experience. Come on, you know that. So stop complaining that the waitress didn’t sit at your table to take your order.

So here’s what I advise.

Do not write a review to hurt a business.

You have no idea how hard it is to make a restaurant run smoothly. Often at the cost of so much more than that plate of food on your table. Give it some space to improve. If it doesn’t, spend your money somewhere else. Do not tear down a restaurant because you have a personal vendetta. Businesses fail all the time. You don’t need to add to their suffering. In the way of natural selection, the strong will survive.

If you do want to write a review, know that there is a manager or owner probably taking it into account. Be constructive.

Don’t expect a response.

I know some owners who respond to Yelp reviews. I used to be a manager who would respond. Especially after making a personally driven attack on a co-worker. But I’m over it. People who write nasty things generally aren’t interested in dialogue.

People actually use Yelp when determining where to eat.

I discourage this. But I know your money is precious and you want to eat somewhere knowing you’ll get what you paid for.

Give the place a chance.

If it sucks, give it some time and try it again. If it still sucks, well, I think you should probably let it be. The dining public tends to sort those things out. Research the restaurant a bit before you go out. Know what to expect. Know what you might be getting into.

If you give a cafe a bad review based on their Wi-Fi connection, you should seriously question your goodness as a human being. (Sort of kidding, but not really.)

At the end of the day, we do actually care about what our customers say and think. It’s why we do what we do. So know if you write a scathing review, it will hit us hard. It takes 100 compliments to make up for one bad.

And really, is anything ever that bad?

Yelp can help and hurt businesses.

Believe it or not, there is power in your words, so don’t just throw them around.

But then again,

that’s just my opinion.

 

 

Hospitality Don’t Come Easy

I get a lot of joy out of feeding my friends.

In a similar way my mom loves taking care of her kids and how she’s so very intuitive to peoples’ needs.

On the occasion that I get to plan a small to medium sized intimate meal, I get a little pumped up. Because I’m not gonna lie, it’s fun to impress people. I get the rush of stretching a culinary muscle all the while saying, “Yeah, I used a whole bottle of wine to make this…”

It sounds silly. And it is.

But a lot of it is intuition. The hospitable bones in my body come from my family, no doubt.

Just know, there is hope if you feel overwhelmed having folks over. A lot of times, it can be — but it doesn’t have to. Especially if you like the people who are coming over. If not, do what I do and hide in the kitchen. (Because there’s always junk to do in the kitchen, am I right?)

I like to be helpful, so let’s talk about some things that have helped me.

First off, you gotta know if folks can eat what you’re planning to cook. If someone is vegan, you’ll probably have to go out and buy a whole new set of groceries (if you aren’t regularly eating vegan). When in doubt, use a lot of olive oil and bread. That’ll get them happy, only for a little while though. “Josh, be sweet…” Okay, okay.

But seriously. Cook accordingly. Nobody puts baby-vegan in the corner.

Beverages.
This also asks of you to pair accordingly to the food you’re cooking. If a dish used an entire bottle of red wine to make, it’ll probably pair well with red wine. If it’s spicy, you may want to focus on less intimidating beverages. Maybe good, light beer, or something with citrus and alcohol.

Always offer water. Especially when alcohol is present. Some folks need to switch gears sooner than others.

Watch their glasses. If they’re empty, make cozy eye-contact and fill em’ up with chosen/offered beverage. Keep cups full until you see the night winding down.

If you’re making something sweet, a lot of folks enjoy a sip of good coffee or hot tea. (or more alcohol) Decaf is probably good, but let’s not get too crazy!

Have a clean kitchen.

This is a lot of work. To cook, host and keep it clean. But it helps, especially as your guests leave. If you don’t want to do their dishes after they leave, at least rinse them well, and stack them neatly so there not so intimidating the morning after. Trust me, it helps.

Mise en place.
This is a big restaurant kitchen thing. It means “putting everything in its place”. It is, by far, the most important tool for cooks (besides whiskey). It translates well into the home kitchen. Basically, have all your stuff done before guests arrive.

You don’t want to be mincing garlic and entertaining at the same time. At least I don’t. Plus, that makes dinner last forever. Don’t fool yourself. If people are coming to eat at your house, they pretty much expect it to be almost done. Do not throw something on the stove that takes three hours to cook right as guests arrive. Unless it’s an all-day thing, ain’t nobody got time for that.

Having all your ingredients ready to go for quick assembly is key. It helps you keep a peaceful mind, all the while throwing down some killer food.

Stick with food you’re comfortable with cooking.

Unless they are close friends who love you regardless of how much you put reduced balsamic vinegar on everything, do as Michael Scott says and ‘Keep it Simple, Stupid.’

Keep a good flow.

It’s important to time your dishes, just as a restaurant would do. You want time for the drinks to settle in. You want people to be HUNGRY. Offer them little snacks. Not too much bread. Nuts are good. Things that are salty are good. Nothing too over-powering though.

You want your main dishes to shine. And no doubt they will when your tipsy friends are saying your roast chicken was the best they’ve ever had.

Because you put in a lot of work.

It’s not always easy to predict what others need. But the more you do it, the easier it’ll come to you.

So, call up a few buds.

Give them at least two beverages to start working on.

Keep that kitchen clean.

Have yo’ stuff ready.

Fall into the ebb and flow.

Laugh a ton.

Stress, not so much.

When you’re in the presence of dear ones, take it in.

Because that’s all that really matters.

 

 

The GAPS Diet (And Why It’s Personal)

My wife is on the GAPS diet.

I know. Boooooooring.

Just kiddin’.

It’s not easy. Let that be clear. Especially in a city like Portland where it is one’s civil duty to eat good food and drink beer.

The GAPS diet is an anti-inflammatory gut-healing diet. It’s usually meant to help people who have intestinal damage, stomach issues and allergies. Its list of benefits are unmatched with any other diet.

The foods you can eat are pretty limited. Especially at first. Mostly home made bone broth and/or veggies and meat cooked in bone broth. Then you can start adding other real foods in slowly. Eggs. Avocado. Almond butter. Coconut oil. Eventually working your way up to eating the basic Paleo diet. Or “normal Gaps” or whatever people want it to be called.

But for Hannah, it’s more about the allergies. A restoration of the body.

Eating bone broth for lunch and dinner every day isn’t easy, even for the hard core soup lovers out there.

The thing is, I’m not on the diet with her. At first, I had my fist in the air shouting “Solidarity!”, but as soon as I woke up to the smell of chicken stock, I was suddenly aware that unless I had to, I couldn’t swing it this time.

It’s not easy if your out and about all the time. Some people take off a week to start the diet. It drains you. It makes you crave all the crap that made you sick in the first place. You have to cook at home consistently. It makes your irritable. For those of us who take a great joy in eating with one another, the journey can be a testament to one’s relationship.

And I know I’m making this sound dramatic. I should explain.

I don’t think I would have gotten as deep into cooking if I wasn’t living with another person who also enjoyed good food. Cooking for Hannah has opened up everything for me. It has given me the space to create and nourish.

It’s given me an imagination and fulfills my need to be hospitable.

I love being able to feed her.

So when all I can do is a put a big pot on the stove, throw in a chicken and some veggies and let it go — it’s just slightly unsatisfying. Especially when I’m eating a killer pork chop and she’s eating a cooked to death chicken leg in a bowl of murky broth. Mmmm.

But it’s important to me that she feel better. Hands down. All this goopey love stuff draws out some really interesting things.

Food eaten and shared with others tastes better. I know I can make a pork chop taste great, but that’s not enough for me. I want others to share in that. I want to wash their dishes and see where they ate up everything.

It’s interesting when you share meals with the same people every day. It’s that ritual of the communal table. Whether that table be the couch watching The Walking Dead or an actual table, with flowers and stuff.

I’m so, so proud of her.

How she turns down the opportunity to cheat and how she hasn’t had coffee in weeks. These are hard, hard things. It takes a strong will and deep ferocious belly to keep going.

I’m doing what I can, but can only go so long without cooking bacon and cornbread. Both of which I cooked on the same day. Both of which happen to be the best smells coming from a kitchen.

I know.

I’m terrible.

But I have to stay on my toes. I can’t go gettin’ all soggy on broth.

Because this diet is personal. Right down to the murky brown where all that goodness resides.

Healing. Restoration. Balance. Control.

I’ll take that over a pork chop any day.

 

finding your voice (when you already have it)

Whether it’s your writing, your art, or your food; there is something powerful about someone discovering their voice.

Yes.

Voice.

It’s been on my mind a lot these days.
And you know what it’s like to see other people who have found theirs. It’s what makes them drive their point deep into your belly. And voices, like people, come in all different shapes.

One of the hardest things about writing is voice. In any form of art or creative thinking — finding your voice is usually the most frustrating. We tend to emulate others we respect and in doing so, sound a lot like them. But people have already heard them before.

You want people to hear you. You want people to understand. Getting that across to those not in your head is hard.

And this is something I’ve been talking to people about lately.
I’m not really for those kind of blogs that give you step by step solutions to things, which is why I don’t really post many recipes. I’m not that skilled of a cook or a writer or a person, so I don’t want you to see me that way.

But there are some things that have helped me in discovering a voice for myself.

Regardless of what you do, do it a lot. 
If you want to sing, sing a lot.
If you want to write, write a lot.

If you want to cook,
I think you get it.

I think it’s important to copy things you like, but only for a little while. Start adapting things to how you work. If you like Stephen King as a writer, you’ll probably find yourself writing short stories in the same tone. (None the less, terrifying and brilliant.)

It goes the same with cooking as we copy recipes out of a book and with time, add more of this and more of that. (Or less!)

Use your intuition.

In all of these things, you are creating your voice.

And people will see that. People are already seeing that in you. Especially when that voice becomes confident and fierce.

You will be unstoppable. (Within the means of law, unfortunately.)

Have fun with it.

You probably aren’t pursuing meaningless work. Maybe you are for the sake of a good salary and benefits. No one is to blame you for that. But it’s important to also do something you love. My Paw-Paw has this saying (which I’m sure he got out of Reader’s Digest) that if you enjoy what you’re doing, you’ll never work a day in your life.

But that’s also not really true. Because work is work. It will suck sometimes. But when you are in pursuit of your voice, it’s refreshing. It drives you to be better. It helps the fact that you stand on your feet for over 10 hours a day. Or ball up paper and start over again and again.

You will mess up and struggle with it. Don’t expect it to be perfect.

But at some point, we all have to move. And to do that with intention and drive is what makes our voice louder than others.

Even for us quiet people, our voices can be loud.

It’s also not something we necessarily have to create, but something that, for lack of more profound words, defines who we are.

We are moms and dad and grandparents. Your voice is who you are as a teacher, how you treat and teach your kids. How you work and what you put into it.

It’s how much you want to learn and what you want to do with that knowledge. And like I said before, it’s about moving forward with that knowledge. It’s about what you give back.

Don’t think of it as something that is far off — you’ve always had a voice, and you always will.

You don’t have to go far to find it.

Just pull out a sheet of paper.

A pen.

A pan.

An instrument.

An onion.

 

…And make it yours.

Spring (of death and resurrection)

It felt right to talk about Spring.

Yes, the weather is crazy un-Spring like. But when is it ever as it’s supposed to be? As though flowers bloom and bees come awake buzzing while the air smells sweet of azaleas and wisteria. Well it’s not here.

And that’s okay.

It’s this time of year especially that western Oregon feels like an emotional wreck. Its huge wind gusts and sideways rain mixed with the  brightest and most naked sun. It’s odd. It’s messy.

It’s Spring.

Along with it comes the hope of new vegetables (Or should I say “in-season” vegetables). Likely in the form of stinging nettles — which you’ll see on almost every menu in Portland — and the hope of asparagus and watercress and artichokes when you’ve heard enough about all you can do with parsnips and beets.

I’m a sucker for nostalgia. Dwight Schrute says it is one of the main human weaknesses. (Along with the neck.)

Spring to me means the things a’bloom.

We are right to assume there is a lot going on now. Our noses are clogged. Our eyes are itchy. The way things shoot out of the ground like some ancient story. And yet it always feels new.

Along with nostalgia, I’m really into changing seasons and what it means for me. To work against this is exhausting. It’s safe to say we’ve done terrible things by manipulating the seasons. Food loses flavor. You become out of touch with how things are supposed to be. I would like to get back to that.

Spring in the Church means lots of things and is something I’ll always remember growing up in the Bible Belt. Death and Resurrection. I question most things I used to believe in (as we all do from time to time), but I am well aware of what this season brings. And I can still feel it in my bones, shaking the cold off as those furry creatures do waking up to a warmer day.

A season of death.

And also a season of resurrection.

I suppose nothing feels more like this than the transition of Winter into Spring.

That great life force sinks into my skin and I am reminded again of why we can’t always have it all. Why some things die, and some things come back brand new.

Let it fill you up.

Mourn the passing of another season.

Because it’s Spring.

And because those old roots are filling with life again.