The give and take in the Running World.

"It is every man's obligation to put back into the world at least the equivalent of what he takes out of it." Albert Einstein

So, last week I had one of those conversations that really annoyed the heck out of me and now I’m on a rant.

There was this woman that I’ve known over the past few years. We’re about the same age, live in the same neighborhood, and we’re both runners. We’ve run into each other on the streets and at a few local races. We’re about the same pace, she’s a little faster than me, but at times we’ve jogged together for a few blocks before going our separate running routes.

When we talked about running together on a more regular basis, I’ve invited her to join my buddies for our early morning runs, but she said it’s too early with getting her kids to school and all that. When we talked about training for this race and that race, and I told her about the training teams that our local running club (RRRC) and Sportsbackers offer to the Richmond running community. She’s said she’d check them out later. In short, we’re friendly to each other, but we’re not in the same circle of friends.

Well, last week, I happened to ask her about her Monument 10K plan, whether she’s going to run it or not. Back in December, we had talked about the Advanced 10K Training Team that meets in our neighborhood and I’m one of the volunteer coaches. Thus, I thought she’s going to run the race.

She said she’d accompany her kids in the 1Mile Kids’ Run. She said she’d run the Monument 10K course backwards (we both live near the turn-around point of the race) in years past. I said I’ve done that, too, ran the course backwards with my buddies, followed by a lawn party while cheering the runners and harassing our friends running the race. This was a few years ago when Monument 10K hosted the National Men’s 10K Championship and I didn’t want to miss the sight of Dan Browne and Alan Culpepper flying past my house, so I organized the run and party at our house.

But then she said something that surprised me, “Yeah, I never paid for any race. It’s just running on the streets that I usually run on anyway. I ran the Half Marathon last year. That was nice. Well, I ran it to support my friend…” she trailed off, probably when she saw my pained face, or when I cut her off, I wasn't sure which.

“ Oh no, [Shithead or insert her name here]! Please tell me you didn’t do that. Not the whole course!”

“Well, I didn’t take any water at the water stops or anything! I swear, I didn’t!”

“You know, that’s the least of the concerns. It’s the other liabilities. What if you tripped and fall and require medic? Who pays for that but the race’s insurance?”

“Well, yeah, I know. I know. That’s why I paid for the Riverrock, because I thought what if I got hurt on the trail, so I paid for that. That’s the only race I’d pay.”

At this point, I must have appeared menacing to her, as she inched away from me, but I wasn’t about to let her go easily.

“Well, that’s good of you [Shithead], but the race price is also to cover the street closing, street cleaning. You know we pay off-duty police officers to man the traffic, right? I mean, usually one and a half time the pay? It’s not the water stops that cost money. You know we call you “bandits” when you do this?”

“I know, I know. I just… anyway…”

Anyway, her work called her and my work called me, so we parted ways uneasily.

I have a lot to say on this matter, as you already read. I believe, in this community, life, world, no matter the scope, there are two types of people: givers and takers. Most people fall in the middle, they take some, but they also give some. I’m one of those people, so are many of my friends. (And I hope you, too.)

Even so, when I encountered a dedicated taker, I found it maddening that someone think it's OK to just take, take, take and take more of it. Aarrgh!

It was a curious exchange I had with this woman, I never thought of her as a taker. She and her doctor husband are fairly affluent; saving money was definitely not the motivation here. (Shoot! I hope she paid for her kids’ race! :) 

It’s incomprehensible to me that she justified her "bandit" action with her assumptions that because she didn’t sip any of the water or sports drink, which, by the way, is the cheapest expenditure of the race, if not free when Dasani or Powerade sponsors it, then it’s OK for her to run the race without paying the race fee.

I feel she’s stolen from those of us who paid our fair share. She, and other bandits, stole not just the paid resources that the race entry fee covered, but also the spectators’ cheers, the runners' privilege to run on closed-to-vehicular-traffic streets, the work and energy that the volunteers put on to make the race successful. It takes a lot of work, planning, logistics and coordination to put on a good race, both from paid race organizers and the willing volunteers. Refusing to chip in a few bucks, I think, undermines their efforts.

I volunteered in races and I did it not because I wanted to stand in the cold or heat, or because I’ve got nothing better to do. I did it because I hope when it’s my turn to volunteer, one volunteer who cheered me on my last race, got a chance to run his or her race this time.  It’s important for me to give AND take. I somehow doubt “bandits” would volunteer once in a while. What do you think? Does this make you mad, too? 

OK, time for me to calm myself down. I'd better go for a run. :)

My New Year's Day ritual

Fully realizing that this post will confirm what a weird, nerdy, party-pooper, boring person I am, I must confess I don’t really care about New Year’s Eve celebration.

That’s right. New Year’s Eve for me is just another night.

Sure, I’d go out to dinner with hubby and friends, just make that reservation no later than 6:30 pm, please.

Perhaps it was my upbringing in Indonesia where we didn’t, still don’t, have the ball drop a la Times Square. In my tiny hometown, any gathering of people past midnight would only attract the cops or neighborhood crime watch patrollers. Or that in College, New Year’s Eve was during a break and none of my friends were around to party with me. Or that working in restaurant and catering business, New Year’s Eve has always been the one last job I have to do before I finally get a few days off after 60-hr workweeks since Thanksgiving.  Perhaps I’m just not a night owl, except when I cater a party.

At heart, I am a morning person. One of those chirpy, sunny happy people who annoy everyone else who need a venti caramel latte with extra triple espresso shots before they can utter “Good morning” that sounds genuine.

My definition of sleeping in is to set the alarm clock for 8 am, but awaken by my circadian clock at 5:30 am, the exact time I go out for a 5-mile run three times a week with my similarly annoying happy morning buddies. When I do set the alarm for 5 am, my internal clock wakes me a few minutes before the actual alarm would go off.

Tony and I started running in the summer of 2000. We moved to our current hometown of Richmond, VA the following year. I remember the 2001 New Year’s Eve party at the Bull and Bear Club where I was working at the time. After a full day of cooking, I was stationed at the raw bar with my colleague Matthew. There were around 300 guests that night. Matthew and I were shucking close to a thousand oysters. We had shucked a couple hundreds before the party started and managed to be ahead of the gulpers through the night. I was tired, my wrists and hands sore from prying open bivalves, but adrenaline and dopamine kept me awake and cheerful to the guests. When I got home around 2 in the morning, I was still buzzing with the party energy. I think I finally fell asleep around 3 am.

I woke up around 7 am. Woo hoo! I slept in!

I must still have some adrenaline coursing thru my veins because I laced my shoes and went out for a run. I was just gonna go for 3 miles or so.

The neighborhood was deserted. No cars on the roads, nobody on the streets. Other than squirrels scampering up the naked trees, there was no one else but me. Richmond was still asleep in oyster and champagne stupor. About half a mile into my run, the snow started to fall. Light and few at first, gradually thickened and muffled my surrounding even more; I could not even hear my footsteps. I was mesmerized by the snowfall, by the peacefulness that enveloped me. I was running in heaven, high, high, high.

I didn’t even remember how long the run was. Probably 5 miles, but that’s not the point. I just remember how happy and peaceful I was by the time I turned the key in the front door. Since then, every New Year’s Eve, I look forward to my solitary New Year’s Day run. I love starting my New Year on the right foot.

However you ring in yours, have a Happy New Year, friends!

The Right (of) Way

Saturday was a gorgeous running day: sunny, blue sky, temperature in high 30s edging into the 40s by 7 am. We laced our shoes, hooked the leash on Biscuit's collar, and we trotted out the door.

We wound our way thru the still-sleepy neighborhood behind our house, finally emerged on Patterson Avenue, a major 4-lane road with a parking lane on each direction for those of you not familiar with my fine city Richmond. We crossed the avenue, heading West downhill towards Willow Lawn. Tony was in front of me, Biscuit right next to me; the gravity pulled us faster, our cadence increased, our lungs expanded and filled up with the cool, crisp air. I felt almost weightless, runner's high approaching...

Then I saw an SUV aiming toward us. Tony saw it, too. We both slowed our pace, trying to make eye-contact with the driver thru his large, tinted windshield, making sure the sun was not shining directly in his eyes, trying to determine his driving intention with his humongous vehicle. We were on the edge of the curb, still on the street, there was not a car on the next lane over. Tony and I waved our brightly colored arms, just in case the driver did not see us (yeah right!) At about 10 feet in front of us, we realized "it was one of those" drivers trying to get us runners off of the parking lane.

Sure enough, he came to less than two feet from us before he braked and swerved away, yelling to us to get on the effing sidewalk. From his tall seat, I could only see his shoulder and mid-50s Caucasian face with bleached blond hair. He seemed like a nice guy, could pass as a golfer type from his WASPy polo shirt and beige SUV, and the fact that he may be living in the affluent Westhampton/Glenburnie/CCV area. I don't know why I automatically assumed he was going to be a frumpy old man or a college punk. I guess I'd been optimistic that everyone living the City of Richmond, by now, knew that runners run on the streets where the asphalt is more forgiving and smoother than the concrete sidewalk. After years of the colossal Monument 10Ks and Richmond Marathons, don't they know runners have the rights to run on the streets, so long we obey the rules?

We stopped and gave the universal shoulder shrug of WTF?!? as SUV Man braked, swerved, and cursed. He cowardly sped up the hill. What he didn't notice was that there was a lady in a sedan behind him who had thought SUV Man was going to slow and park, he was straddling the parking lane for the last block as far as we could see. As SUV Man braked, this woman had to brake and swerve her car to the left lane to avoid colliding with the jerk SUV.


We resumed our run, not willing to let the jerk ruin it for us. It just made me sad and annoyed that there are non-runners who do not understand the term "Share the Road".

So, here are some of the "cardinal rules" to remind everyone, runners, walkers, cyclist, and motorists, as most of us engage in our interchangeable modes of transportation:


1. RUNNERS: on sidewalk or no sidewalk, ALWAYS run facing traffic, as close to the curb as possible, single-file or two abreast at the most. When you see a car coming, be alert and anticipate the vehicle's moves. On a stop sign, when a car is on a side street, always make eye contact with the driver, or go behind the car (make eye contact with the next car behind the first car before stepping in front of the second car).  Just because you run on a "parking lane" doesn't mean you can take over the whole lane. Don't clog up the traffic lane, please!

2. RUNNERS: when you see a cyclist coming (they are supposed to ride WITH traffic), move out of the way, especially when there's a car behind the bike. Cyclists CANNOT easily look back nor it is advisable for them to move into the traffic! I know this because I have a lot of cyclist friends and I used to think they're selfish that they wouldn't move a couple inches into the traffic lane when there wasn't any car behind them. They pointed out to me that split second decision and sudden movement on a bike often lead to serious repercussion for the rider(s). D'oh! See #3.

3. CYCLISTS: ALWAYS ride WITH traffic and obey traffic laws. Don't weave in and out of traffic and parking lanes, a.k.a. try maintaining a straight line of riding so cars know what to expect of you. Same rules of making eye-contact with a driver when you come to stop-sign at an intersection.

4. DRIVERS: you have to share the road with runners and cyclists. We know how to "operate" ourselves in most situations, but if we do clog up your lane, we deserve a light honk. I've done that to other runners when I was driving and encountering runners recklessly running 4-5 abreasts and endangering all of us. We runners appreciated your moving over to the empty next lane and we usually waved, although we did not expect you to do that, but that's very nice of you. Thanks!

5. DRIVERS: please don't aim at mowing us down. That's just not cool with everyone, including the cops.

Share the road. We all have the right to use the roads, and so long we all operate within the boundaries of our rights as motorists, cyclists, runners or walkers, I believe we can coexist peacefully.

A brief and wondrous encounter with a black bear.

"The mountains have always been here, and in them, the bears."
- Rick Bass (in The Lost Grizzlies, page 97)

A couple weeks ago, Biscuit dog, (my friend) Mila and I stayed at a cabin in Smith Mountain Lake State Park, in Huddleston, VA. I had never been there before, but heard it's a beautiful place. It was!

I took Biscuit as my trail running buddy. Every morning we headed out the door around 7 and spent the next couple hours dodging roots and branches alike, wiping dewy spiderwebs off of my face and arms, wading into the cool clear waters to enjoy the vista, and transporting ticks from the woods onto the cabin's porch where I would pick dozens of them off of our bodies. After breakfast and a quick shower for me, we either go back out for several more hours of hiking and swimming, or we chill for a few hours and pack a picnic lunch for later. Mila would join us on this latter excursions. We ran or hiked all the different trails in the park by the time we left.

On Thursday, Biscuit and I set out to do our long run. I'm in the midst of the marathon training season. Having signed up for an Oct 16 marathon, I needed to run a 8 - 9 miler as my long run. With Biscuit in the back seat, I drove the car and parked it at the Visitor Center. The plan was to run the 1.75 miles Walton Creek trail, cross the playground/picnic area at the turn around point, and pick up the Striper Cove trail loop for 6 miles, then take Walton Creek back to the Visitor Center, totaling about 9.5 miles. 

The park trails were very well maintained, but Walton's Creek trail had more than its fair share of dropped Virginia pine cones threatening to roll my ankles. A canoe launch area gave Biscuit a chance to wade in and play fetch for a few minutes. We finally made it to the picnic area. We crossed the playground and saw the Striper Cove trail head. On a whim, I decided to cross back to the opposite side to hike the short .80 mi loop of the rocky Osprey Point trail, not wanting to miss the promised view.

We completed the loop and walked back to the playground. As Biscuit and I were cresting a hill to reach playground, a juvenile black Bear walked toward us, or rather, toward a trash can. 

 

"Whoa!" I shouted and stopped on our track. The Bear stopped, too, and looked up. There were about fifty feet between us and I thought about how far away 1.75 to my car was. Biscuit was thankfully right beside me, panting softly from his swimming earlier at the canoe launch, the hill hid him from the Bear and prevented him from seeing the Bear. 

Time stood still as the Bear and I stared at each other. My mind raced with every information I'd read about what to do when encountering a bear. Problem was those very information were all jumbled up and I couldn't remember if I was supposed to play dead now or when I was under attack; I was supposed to look bigger and threatening or was that for grizzlies encounter?

I knew for sure I was not to turn around and run because that would make me look a prey vs. the currently clueless and defenseless runner. I was also aware that Bears could be curious of pets and I had one very friendly Golden Retriever attached to my hip at that very moment. 

As clarity crept back into my mind, I quickly scanned the area for defense: the metal trash can might have been the best thing to hurl at the Bear and use the can's lid as an armor a la Captain America. But it was closer to the Bear than to me. Rats! 

Or, I'd take off Biscuit's leash with his prong collars attached and wield it ninja-style, aim it well on the Bear's head. Yeah, that's it! Bring it, Bear. No, go away Bear. Go away!

Thankfully, the Bear decided I was no match for him. He turned around and run back into the woods. I think I finally inhaled my breath. I looked down at Biscuit, who was still panting softly and looked up at me with his smiling googly eyes, "Why are we stopping?"

I tugged at his leash, "Heel, boy. We're not going on THAT trail." 

Instead, we raced down Walton Creek trail back to the Visitor Center.  Adrenaline coursed through my veins, I was fleet and nimble like the dozens of deer we had met that week, I didn't even notice any Virginia pine cones on the ground. 

The Park Ranger took my bear sighting report and said this was the first report in the State Park in his 4-year tenure. I said, "Well, it's definitely thrilling and exciting, but I don't think I want to repeat it."  We agreed on that. 

Biscuit and I then picked up a different trail system from the Visitor Center, away from the playground, to get our 9 miles in. I made sure I talked loudly to Biscuit about the weather, what's for breakfast, how I realized being human and having opposable thumbs didn't mean squat that morning, and I sang loudly whatever songs came to mind. Better to look like a crazy runner than accidentally sneak up on a black bear again. Biscuit just panted, happy being outside doing the thing we both love: running. 

 

 

Papa don't peach!

This shows you I spent my teen years in the eighties: Madonna's  "Papa Don't Preach" was the first thing that popped in my head when I thought about the peach crepe I made the other day.

Growing up, peaches were luxury fruit beyond my family's budget. Not grown in Indonesia, we used to ogle these huge fuzzy pink-yellow balls imported from China, stack neatly behind a glass case inside the upscale grocery stores in bigger cities than my hometown. In my tiny hometown, we never saw peaches. The most expensive imported fruit we'd drool over would be Sunkist oranges. Sometimes, Red (not)Delicious apples.

In our family, we consume copious quantities of oh-so-generic mangoes, bananas, soursops, guavas, jackfruit, tangerines, star fruit, that Mom bought at the open air market stalls. I used to daydream about how those peaches must have tasted: crisp, crunchy, juicy, sweet tart - all the characteristics of tropical fruit I was used to consuming.

When I finally sank my teeth into my first peach (yes, here in the USA, about 12 yrs ago) I was surprised at how soft the peach flesh was. The heady scent, the sweet juice, so unlike what I'd imagined. It was love at first bite!

The past few years, hubby and I have been enjoying ripe local peaches every summer. We buy quarts of peaches at the Farmers' Market every week from AgriBerry, Schepp's produce stand, Thistledown Farms, or pre-order Henley's Orchard peaches from the Victory Farms. At home and at the restaurant, we're so peachy for a few weeks.  We eat them fresh, slice and toss them into salad with pecans and goat cheese, make jams, bake them into an upside down cake, blend in smoothies, slice and smother it in Greek yogurt and drizzle with Alfredo Honey, or on a lazy morning I'd make crepes and stuff them with fresh peaches. Life is peachy good...

Mens sana in corpore sano

That phrase (mens sana in corpore sano) has got to be the first foreign language words I learned since it's stuck in my head all thru the years. You know what they say, "teach them when they're young, and they'll never forget."

Well, that's the approach William Byrd Community House (WBCH) took when we discussed offering "family cooking class" this summer. We decided to focus the cooking classes in the early childhood education part of the summer program, working with kids ages 3 to 5. Young children are impressionable. Their palate is still pure, they know when food tastes good, they like it. Before they get accustomed to (admittedly, taste good) fast and processed food, we want them to like wholesome food first.

Back track a little bit, on June 4, Chef Sally Schmidt and I were invited to the White House' South Lawn, as representatives of the Women Chefs and Restaurateurs (WCR), to attend Mrs. Obama's kick-off of the Chefs Move to Schools initiative. The First Lady set out to inspire chefs all over the nation to get into schools, work with teachers, parents, students and staff to improve the school nutrition program. With obesity afflicting 30% of our youths (that's one obese kid for every three children), school is a critical component in educating the youngsters about the importance of eating healthily. For most of the inner city students, the meals they eat at schools are the only "nutritious" meal they have. Chefs are called upon to help ensure the schools are indeed providing nutritious meals.

Inspired, we were. Alone, we were not. As soon as we came back to Richmond and told other RichmondWCR members and other chefs, we now have a collective force behind our steps to improve school nutrition programs in Metro Richmond schools. We are eager to start, but schools are on summer vacation right now.

When Patty Parks, the WBCH Librarian, heard about our initiative, she asked me if I would consider adopting WBCH for the summer. Immediately I said yes. I figured I can get my feet wet before we go into public schools in the Fall. Chef Sally Schmidt and I appointed ourselves as the main chefs for this summer, although we have an enthusiastic group of chefs and volunteers who already committed themselves to help us during the 7-week kitchen sessions. There are 30 youngsters in the program, so we will have 5 to 6 kids and their parents/guardians in each cooking class. We had our first class on Thursday. Five kids, four parents, and a few volunteers. The produce were harvested that morning, by the kids, from the WBCH Farmlet and produce donation from Shalom Farms. UR kitchen and private citizens have been generous in donating dry goods (still needed on on-going basis) and cooking utensils. This is a Community project. Enjoy some of the photos below. More are posted on Byrd House Market page on Facebook.

Each kid and parent/guardian teamed up to prepare a dish. Here, cleaning up the Swiss chard.

Chef Sally preparing balsamic vinaigrette for the tomato, pepper, cucumber and basil salad.

We want the parents and kids to cook and eat together. Here and at home.

I love watching kids concentrating on the task at hand. One girl actually showed one boy how to hold the knife properly so he didn't cut himself.

Note to self: kids love the tactile handling of food. Here, we were shaping the potato-onion cakes. I had a captive audience when I showed them how to shape the cakes. They couldn't wait to form the potato cakes with their hands!

How do we get kids to eat their veggies? We got them involved in every level: harvesting (grocery shopping), cooking, cleaning, setting up the tables, serving, eating, and then more cleaning. They were so happy doing everything when we asked them to help out.

On the menu:
Salad of tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers; Garlic sauteed Swiss chard, Potato-onion cake with yogurt, and melon - watermelon with mint.  Switch Beverage Company donated their 100% carbonated fruit juice for the kids - a much better alternative to sodas.

This was the reward: full tummy, happy kids. Mens sana en corpore sano.
Can't wait for next week's class.

Fond memories at The Southern Inn restaurant, Lexington, VA

I read today that The Southern Inn Restaurant suffered a total loss from an early morning fire. I am so sad. We read Rockbridge Weekly article and told the staff The Southern Inn was my first cooking job; the kitchen where I learned most of my skills, where I discovered my passion for cooking, where I thrived under the guidance of terrific chefs and cooks I worked with. The Southern Inn Restaurant always feels like the home in which my professional self grew up and nurtured. Paraphrasing They Might Be Giants, it is "the little bird house in my (chef) soul". Since we moved to Richmond in 2001, we've been back a few times to visit Lexington and to eat there. I can't wait for George and Sue Ann Huger to rebuild and reopen the Southern Inn Restaurant. My heart goes out to them and the current staff.  My mind, meanwhile, races back to these fond memories from June 1999 to July 2001. 
http://southerninn.com/ *btw, the photos below are not from my time at the Southern Inn Restaurant. I was busy working and did not have a digital camera, either.

While everyone partied like it was 1999 (it was '99), I was in the basement of The Southern Inn restaurant in Lexington, Virginia, preparing hors d'oeuvre for the Y2K New Year's Eve party going on upstairs.

I was cursing myself over a hotel pan of white chocolate cheesecake that wasn't pretty at all. I had forgotten the cheesecake in the oven half an hour too long the previous day and, in a hurry to go home, I put the cheesecake straight into the walk-in fridge where, overnight, it punished my abuse by cracking itself open in several places, crater deep. I tried repairing the open wounds by smoothing a hot knife blade over the surface. No luck. The cracks mocked me for my day-old carelessness. I drizzled raspberry coulis to make it pretty, but it looked like blood had spewed out of those craters. Dang it! I was on my 14 or 15th hour and all I had to do was set up the desserts on trays so the wait staff could pass them a little after midnight while guests were toasting the year 2000. I was screwed.

In the kitchen above, I heard the distinctive, boisterous laugh of my boss, mentor, executive Chef George Huger, the owner of the restaurant. I heard him calling my name as he walked across the kitchen above my head and soon he ran down the stairs saying, "Hey Ellie, you're still here? How are the sweets coming along?"

I must have looked so guilty, being caught red-handed (literally) standing over a cheesecake massacre. Not missing a beat, George walked over to the cake, cut a little piece off the edge, tasted it, grinned and said, "Mmm, taste good. Let's get some filo shells and pipe these babies in them! C'mon, chop, chop!"

Just like that: problem solved. Half hour later, hundreds of tiny filo shells filled with the "now-raspberry-swirl" white chocolate cheesecake, topped with fresh raspberry or shavings of white chocolate (we didn't have enough fresh raspberries for all of them) arranged themselves so sweetly on silver trays and were a hit with the guests. Lessons learned: 1) don't mess with physics/cooking principle just to rush home, 2) when I do mess up, better come up with a creative solution than trying to force the mess into the original intention.

That was my first large catering job experience in the US. I had helped my Mom catered weddings for hundreds of people in Java, where my Mom still operates her catering company. I had been working for only 6 months at the Southern Inn restaurant, my first real cooking job (meaning I got paid!). 

Hubby was going to W&L Law School, he was away in CO for a summer internship when I applied for the cook position that June. I had been waiting tables at a neighboring restaurant, The Sheridan Livery Inn, the previous school year, but decided it was time to start a career. As I said to George during the job interview, I knew how to cook some Asian food and simple spaghetti dishes (with red sauce or with vegetable primavera), but I want to learn how to cook the "western" way.  To his credit, George hired me anyway, starting as a prep cook during the day and making salad, cold sandwiches and plating desserts during service.

I could not have chosen a better restaurant to learn the rope: we made everything in house, from salad dressings to table breads. It was a perfect learning environment for me, I got to try my hands at everything we make at the restaurant. From day one, everyone in the kitchen were helpful and the wait staff were friendly. George took me under his wings for the first few weeks, making sure I learned the fundamental techniques, such as knife skills. After 3 or 4 times he caught me retiring the big 8-inch chef's knife in favor of the 2-inch paring knives (I had never hold a chef's knife before in my life), George collected all the paring knives and bellowed to the kitchen, "If anyone sees Ellie using a paring knife, take it away from her." He put away the paring knives into the tool boxes we use as knives storage case and handed me an 8-inch chef's knife. I managed to keep all my digits and my knife skills actually improved. Who knew?

George then instructed me to watch and learn from the guys working the line at dinner service. The long galley kitchen was perfect for spectating. My cold station was just 2 feet away from the 12-burner stove "saute station", then the shared flat top, full size gas grill and double oven comprised the "grill station".

In between plating cold apps, salads, or sandwiches I would hover over the saute station, watching Jimmy or Dave deftly portion penne pasta into the boiling water, sear a chicken breast, saute a rockfish, warm up some creamy polenta, pan saute 3 portions of veggies, and finish 2 sauces for the steaks being plated by Mike the grill cook, said "thank you" to the waitress putting in an order, tell me to "fire" a salad (I hopped back over to my domain), call out a fried apps order to Mike, put another saute pan on a burner and start cooking some mussel apps, got the veggies pan off the stove, turn off the flame under the polenta pan, grab 3 plates and portioned the veggies on them, Mike took two plates and put potatoes and lamb racks on them, Jimmy/Dave put the polenta and rockfish on the third plate, drizzle some sauce and sprinkle chopped fresh basil, wipe the plate rim, put it up on the window and pleasantly called out a wait staff "order up!", turn around to pull the penne basket out of water, poke the chicken breast and hum, put it in the oven to finish cooking, turn off the flame under the mussels, plate - garnish - wipe rim, put it up on the window about the same time Mike put up the fried apps and me finish the salad. "Order up!"

We danced like that all night, all week long. It was a well oiled kitchen team. I wasn't running then, I got "cooking high" instead. 3 months later, when Mike moved down to Florida for the winter, I got to train and work the saute and grill stations.

Then, true to the food business nature, there were periods when we were short-staffed. The baker went back to school, something like that, so I volunteered to come in on one of my days off to bake the table breads while the sous-chef took on the dessert making duties. Once a week, I'd arrive at 5 or 6 a.m. and made ten dozens of hamburger buns, 6 -8 different kinds of breads shaped into dozens baguettes for the table bread, and sheet pans of focaccia. At firsts, I would miss my timing and 3 hours into mixing the next dough, the other doughs proofing in 5-gallon buckets would puff up so great they spilled out of the buckets. I'd run to the buckets punching down the doughs. I loved the bread baking day, I'd come out of the restaurant smelling like cinnamon raisin bread.

Months later, after we got another baker, the newly appointed sous-chef quit on me two hours before service on a Friday night. We had something like 70 people on the reservation book that fateful night, the fish delivery was late from Maryland, the sous chef was late as well - surprised! I was breaking down some beef filet or racks of lamb when he strolled in after 3 pm. We were supposed to be there at two. I had come in at 1, knowing there was a truckload of meat and fish to clean (I didn't know the fish was gonna be late, so coming in an hour early was a moot point).

Anyway, the Quitter Sous looked over the to do list I wrote, went downstairs to start working on the fish. He carried up a whole tuna and a couple sides of salmon, and (I kid you not) about 15 minutes later he took a deep sigh, put down his knife on the fishy board, threw away the gloves, and said, "I can't do this. Tell George I've got to go. Family stuff."  He went downstairs, got his stuff and walked out the door.

Penny had worked the lunch and was getting ready to leave. She looked at me and after the initial shock, we both said, "What the hell?!"  Bless her heart, Penny stayed for a couple more hours to help me get ready for dinner. I never gutted fish so quickly in my life!
 
When George came back at 5 (he opened the restaurant and worked lunch in the dining room, because of course, the dining  room managers had quit the weeks before, so George went home for a few hours after lunch). So, when he came back at 5 and found out the situation, he assigned one of the waitresses to take charge out front. As we stood behind the line waiting for the dinner guests to arrive, I said to him, "Whatever happen tonight, if I mess up anything, please wait until we're done with service. If you yell at me during service, I may just break down. I'm soooo pissed off at Quitter Sous right now."
Thankfully everything went smoothly that night. I'd say it was one of the best and smoothest service we ever did together. Phew!

Btw, I gave the Quitter Sous a cold shoulder when he came in for his paycheck the following week. I was sure if I were to open my mouth to talk to him, I would spit fire.

Ah... the Southern Inn Restaurant, I'll miss your old self. I look forward to visit your new self!