Family. I do adore them. But with a family dynamic like ours comes firey personalities that, when multiplied, go the way of bad slasher films.

The Cousin and I have had a love/hate relationship since birth. She the overly spoiled and self entitled only child, and me never born with the gift of keeping my mouth shut. Even in church… always with the talking… a relationship that escalated when we both reached the age of 12 and hormones only magnified what we brought to the table.

And when you place those two dynamics together in planning a wedding… excuse me…. THE wedding… things go well only as long as I find a way to keep my mouth shut. And that way, as I found, is a stern look from The Mother. Even at my tender age of *cough*41*cough* The Mother can still shoot me a look from across the room and silence what she knows will be a very appropriate, but very ill timed opinion.

Seriously, The Mother… she’s fierce.

But things were really going ok. This was The Cousin’s Dream… so live the dream. Just don’t be mean to the caterers. And in this case, The Caterers belonged to a lovely team of professionals working out of a gorgeous historic estate. And by “gorgeous historic” I mean gorgeous estate… lovely grounds… but historic kitchen in every sence of the word. In the basement, no less. And I felt their pain on so many levels, watching as people plowed through platters of ceviche’ like it was the last supper before armageddon.

I found myself going overboard to say how delicous everything was, and thanking them profusely. Desperately trying to make up for every snobbish, wobbly heeled princess who refused to make eye contact with the working class. Or by waving their hands at platters as if they were filled with mounds of dirt.

But there were a lot of lovely people there… people who appreciated the efforts and the fabulous food. People who laughed and shared stories over steak medallions with bearnaise… which, if I can say, I would be happiest swimming in a pool of delicous bearnaise….

Anyway.

The Cousin, unfortunately, did not share in the good spirits of those lovely few. And instead hiked up her dress to march across the lawn and point out that one of the servers opted to wear a black tie instead of brown as she requested. It was… unbelievable.

And as she marched back across the lawn, I will admit that I maybe slid my foot in the direction of her path to maybe kind of trip her up a little, but then I noticed a laserbeam from across the way burning into my head - a look, from The Mother. So I rolled my eyes, sighed, and pulled my foot back. And The Mother raised her eyebrow and her wine glass back in my direction.

Sometimes I wish I was still 12, because I totally would have tripped her.

Well, I mean, few is putting it lightly.  I’ve never even been off continent.  Unless Hawaii counts.  Whatever.  Who has time for all the travelling?  I’m too busy waiting for chicken to be fried to plan something that would take me away from my stove for 2 weeks.

So these places…  Ireland…. Italy… Greece… Spain… North Africa… The Middle East… (see what I am saying… few is really not even close….)  

But anyway.

One place I would love to go is this woman’s kitchen.  I stumbled upon her blog accidentally… I don’t even know when.  And I cant’ remember if I told you about her, but I am kind of stalking her.  Because … I want to go to her house for food.  Before I go to Ireland…. Italy… Greece… Spain… North Africa… The Middle East… you get the point.

I wonder if she has cranky, knife-dropping, hive-prone chicas to her house…. I wonder if she knows how to make lemon drops….

Proud Italian Cook

(this better look like a hyperlink when I am done, damnit…)

Offended at not having to bread/fry/sweat over 300 pieces of chicken?    Um…. yeahhhh that would be a resounding NO!

So we made arrangements with said deli, and found that the owners would be out of town that particular weekend, but their staff is fully capable of handling such an order and it would be no problem.   It was in the books.  Pick up chicken at 4:00 p.m.  It will be ready.   Checked and double checked.

And checked again that week just because even though I was still in “AV” up tempo mood, I was slightly concerned over the owners being gone.  Now, my staff is fully capable to handle anything in my absence, and I certainly was not questioning their judgement, but I also remember the time someone on my staff burned 8 large pans of lasagne because they got distracted by something shiny in the parking lot.   (Another story for another time…)

So we’re on site, I am avoiding the hay bales - as I said they give me hives.  Like - not so much hives as welts.  Big ones.  Red splotchy welts that only a cocktail of Benadryl and more Benadryl can take the edge from.  If I am lucky.  Once I had to have a steroid shot.  And the steroid shot didn’t make me puff like the doctor said it would, but it did make me feel like I wanted to crawl out of my skin, which is how the welts made me feel, so I saw no benefit to it at all, and told my doctor that as I gritted my teeth and twisted my neck like a crack addict on a 3 day binder.

Anyyyhewwww….

It was about time for me to make the run back to town for the crispy bird.   4:00 pick up, 4:45 service.  Perfect timing to keep the chicken reasonably hot, but for certain still crispy.

I should have known what I was up against as I entered the back door of the deli and saw the workers snapping one another with the towel.   We will just call them “Twit and Twitette” because the other names I came up with that day keep getting me blacklisted here at Wordpress.

Twitette looked at me and said, “You’re early. ”   I looked at the clock and she was right - it was 3:57, so I thought - you know - stupidly that she was making a funny.   I chuckled, played along, and she said, “Dude… you’re totally early.  You’re not supposed to be here until 4:45.”  

That’s Dudette to you, Twitette.

“Um, no.  I am supposed to be here at 4:00… picking up hot chicken”

“Um, no, you are supposed to be here at 4:45 to pick up hot chicken.”

As she said this she snapped her gum and rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed with my raised eyebrow and lame attempt to hide my look of panic.

“Pick up time is 4:00.  It was triple checked.”

“Well my note says 4:45.”  This time she shot a look of defiance to Twit who was standing there hand placed way too close to “male scratching range” for me, and I swear if he had scratched I would have lunged.  (Clearly, not enough lemon drops on the VaCay)

“Can I see your note?”

“No”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t”

“Can you check the note again please?”

“No”

“And why?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

I finally had to rationalize with myself that going toe to toe with what looked to be a 17-year old version of Courtney Love was not going to end well in any way. 

“Look, I don’t have time for any of this.  Neither do you.  You have exactly 45 minutes to give me 300 pieces of hot and crispy chicken so I suggest you get started.”

She started to say something and Twit had the brains to tell her that I was right - that they needed to get started.   I called The Partner and told her to stall, and I found a place by the back counter to lean on and watch, hoping my unpleasant presence would keep them moving.  In doing so I found the infamous note…   “Chicken to be ready at 4:00 sharp!  They are serving at 4:45 sharp.  Put in foil boxes in back room.  Do not be late!”

Vindicated I casually waved the note in the air as Twitette shot me an eye-rolling glance out the corner of her eye.  She had the actual nerve to say, “See, I was right” and being in  no mood to be mature about any of it at this point I walked over and held it up about 4 inches from her face.

“Dude.  Oh Shit.  Dude.  My bad.”

Totally your bad.

I said nothing, instead went out to the van to take a call from The Partner letting me know they were caught up in a game of horse shoes and no one was in a hurry to keep on schedule.

At 5:25 I arrived on site and no one was the wiser, everyone was thrilled, the food (chicken included) was fabulous, and all was well with the world.

And then my phone rang.  “Dude.  You’re not gonna tell my boss about all this, are you?  I mean.  Whatev.  If you want to be all old and cranky and shit, but you got the chicken, right?”

Yeah.  Because calling me old and cranky is exactly how you become my new BFF.

The best part of that conversation was realizing I had mindlessly leaned against a wall of hay.

Good times, people.

Ohhhhh so lovely, my vacation… so very lovely.  I became a better version of me.  The version that recovered quickly to the idea that a strawberry daquiri poolside will set you back a $20 spot, and a couple of poached eggs and toast wheeled in on a linen table at breakfast will deplete your funds another $70.   But I did not care.  I walked the beach at 6:00 a.m., listened to the sound of the ocean from my patio, and watched jets fly.

I am sure its cliche’, but please do yourself a favor and book a stay at the Hotel del Coronado.   Dine al fresco at 1500 Ocean.  And build a fire on the beach.  It will make your world a better place.  

It made my world a better place. So much better, in fact, that I am still bitter about the fact that I had to come home.   But I’m working on that.

Kinda.  I mean, obviously if I use the word :”bitter”, my world is not better so much.  *sigh*  So complicated…

My first Trick back was a lovely party for 100.  Sinatra was playing on the speakers, twinkle lights glistened around the lake.  People were happy sipping wine and swaying to the sound of a the light breeze playing off the tall grass.   Which is good, because they did not hear me say in the kitchen, “HOLY SHIT IT IS NOT WORKING!” 

I didn’t actually scream that so much as I did mouth it to The Partner.  We had about 45 minutes to go until service when I decided to check the oven (never assume, people) and realized not only was the oven down, the grill top and broiler were down, too.  And the Maintenance Man had just left for the night.    The controlled chaos that ensued after was a firestorm of hustling what did manage to get cooked to the warmer, and what did not get cooked to a makeshift stove on a small table out behind the clubhouse.   And by makeshift small stove I mean a camping stove and a small non stick pan.   And yes, you too can cook 200 chicken satay in this very method.   Just be sure to have a towel standing by for the sweat beads that will most certainly want to pour from your forehead.   What got me through that moment was repeating over and over, “Yesterday I was eating a strawberry tart with buttercream while dipping my feet in the ocean… ”

That thought worked for about all of 3 minutes, because I soon realized I needed to focus on the task at hand.  I needed to get back into my groove of doing what I do, being who I am.  And we pulled it out, people had a fantastic time, food was awesome, and Sinatra was just as dreamy as ever.

So - stay at the Del.  Relax on the beach.  Eat strawberry and buttercream tarts.  And be sure that after you finally get your website and domain name back that you are careful to write your passwords down.  Because coming back from vacation and trying to prove who you are to people on the other side of the screen is a real bitch.

Good to be back. 

I am trying to put into words what has gone on with my site, my domain, my e-mail, and everything else connected to this… but I can’t find words that don’t contain more than 4 letters.  But I will tell you - it sounds a lot like, “Muster Truck”…

… see what I am saying? 

I will tell you that I cried.  Out of sheer frustration and feeling like I am the stupidest computer user in the world.  And it occured to me that I am going to have to pay someone to manage this site because I am not smart enough, don’t have enough time, and don’t have the wrought iron gut to go through it all again. 

I will say this - to the people who tried to steal my domain and hold it ransom - you suck.    And I hope you fall in a sink hole the size of Texas and are surrounded by fire ants. 

So I am back - if you are still here, God Bless You.   But the thing is - I am going on vacation now.  I need it.   I am going someplace warm with a pool … where they bring me cocktails by the pool… and food on fancy plates.  And where someone will drive me around and take me other places where they serve cocktails and food… and then to other places with more cocktails.

Thank you for sticking with me this far.  I’ve just gotten back in my e-mail to get all of your kind words.  You’re all awesome.

And if you can wait - I will see you next week.  Relaxed, and probably just a teeny bit hungover.

I go, I come back, I go, I come back…. I am like a yo-yo on a very long and twisted string.

I don’t think I had plannned for the breakneck schedule I would be on after the “hiatus”.   I thought, you know, ease back into it all like that first dip in the pool.  Instead it was like that time I was 5 and The Father decided it was time I learned to swim, so he hurled me off the dock into The Lake.  

It really wasn’t as traumatic as it all sounds, the water was only about 2 feet deep, and I did exact my revenge when I got out of the water and punched him direct in his… er… manhood.   It was a learning experience niether he nor I would ever forget.   (or is it he or I…. whatever, like I care) 

The Tricking has been a little out of control.  Recession be damned, people want to party, and they are hungry as Hell.   I’ve never served so many freaking meatballs as I have over the last few weeks and I keep thinking that at some point someone is going to say, “Enough of the balls already, toss a little lamb shank our way…”  But it’s always about the balls.

Graduation parties, weddings, funerals (I know… but people do eat at funerals…), anniversary parties… you name it, we’ve done it.  I keep waiting for a call from The Circus when they come to town, though I can’t express enough - as I have already before - Clowns…. NO CLOWNS.

But it’s all a great blessing, and I can’t complain.  I still seem to be in this ‘happy place’ that I can’t shake, and don’t tell anyone, but I am actually starting to enjoy all the happy.  There is a fair amount of trepidation coming from those around me - not wanting to poke the sleeping bear - but also just slightly afraid to become to comfortable with all the smiling for fear one of these days all the smiling could just mean I am plotting their death.

Either way, I am smiling.

Even last week when we sat down with what I can only describe to you as Red Neck Hairy.   His Daughter is getting married - a sweet little waif of a girl - and he wants “some good grub thrown on the table with all the fixins…”   Which, we can do fixins, but not for $5.00 per person.  When I said as much to him, he took the knife* out of his mouth long enough to say, “Why?  Chickun is cheap…”   And as soon as he said that I had this visual of him showing up to my back door with 40 headless chickens demanding to be plucked.

Fortunately he was a man to be reasoned with, and we were able to come to a common goal.  I was only slightly frightened when he wondered if he provided the beef if it would be cheaper - again - I saw a bloody carcass in my future - but it turns out he knows a butcher, who as it just so happens is friends with the baker making the wedding cake.  

And no, as tempted as I was, I didn’t ask about the candle stick maker… the man used a pocket knife* to pick his teeth.  

I might be happy, but I am not stupid.

On sample day.

On the hottest day of the year.

Seriously, people, it’s a freaking chicken nugget - there’s no need to demo derby your carts to get to them.  (Annie - I nearly lost my nice…)

But last night, even as I was losing a battle with an oven that would not hold temperature, I remembered why I do this.   The Bride and Groom arrived to the venue and the first place they came was to the kitchen.  They cheered when they saw the food and gave us big hugs.  They were a darling couple, so intent on showing their guests a good time.  And their attitude showed through the entire room.   People were happy - they were kind - they were fun. 

The vibe in the room was that of complete happiness.

And when I walked the tables to do a quick sweep of anything messing up the flow, I only found one cocktail meatball sitting precariously on the edge of the table. And as is habit I put it in my pocket, and kept scanning the room.

But on my way back to the kitchen my worst fear happened - I was pulled onto the dance floor. And at first I resisted but then I thought ‘What the Hell - it’s the new me’, so I allowed myself to be spun a few times and had a few laughs. And I thought I was in the clear until he dipped me - and that cocktail meatball fell onto the floor at a moment when the music stopped and all eyes were on me.

And on that meatball… and that meatball didn’t look so much like a meatball lying there in the middle of the dance floor.

Before I could stop myself I found myself shouting, “I swear it’s a meatball!!”

And everyone laughed. And my dance partner did that dramatic forehead wipe and said, ‘Whew… for a minute there I thought you got so excited you pooped.”

Now I remember….

I decided that since Conan O’Brien was going to be on The Tonight Show for the first time I did not want to steal his thunder. 

See what time off turned me in to?  A nice person…. scary, right?

And also a foolish person.   As you can see - it’s all still the same here.  And it will be the same until… well, Hell, I don’t know.  And I could care less.

See what time off did to me?  I am carefree…scary, right?

And you should know - this was the wrong week for me to come back.  I am in the middle of back to back everything… especially Tricking.    So much with all the food - I just realized I smell like chicken.  And not in a good way.

So I’m here, I’m nice and happy… scary, right?

Don’t worry though - I am still the same Food Whore.  Just a little more amped up, I went and got all stupid and got myself a Blackberry.  And the damn thing won’t stop ringing - E-mail!  Texts!  Messages from the Web!   I feel like I am walking around with a tiny tour guide in my pocket.  

And I made the mistake of telling A Client that yes I do, in fact, text.  

OH MY GOSH.   42, that was the last count of texts this week.  42!   HUGE MISTAKE PEOPLE.  

Huge.

So I’m here - I’m happy - I’m nice - but I am still living in Crazy Town.   And a bunch new people have moved in… I can’t wait to tell you about them.

And if I actually read the book Wordpress for Dummies, I could insert that link.

Damnit.

I go 100 mph every day and by the time I get home I have so many thoughts to share but I just sit and stare and stare and then I get distracted by something shiny.

And then I make a lemon drop.

I am kind of in… burn out mode. Too many irons in the fire, and not enough fire to back it up. I’ve been in this mode for a long time and The Husband sat me down a few nights ago and gave me a little pep talk (read: lecture) about realizing that I can’t do all things and be all things. (He’s such a buzz killer)

And as much as it kills me to say this - he is right. Internet, don’t tell him I said that.

But I do need some time off to sit back and be a little less crazy. And fortunately I have an amazing staff who is willing to do whatever they can to make it happen. Their willingness is incredibly sweet, although I am no fool to know it is less about them being nice, and more about wanting rid of me for a while.

And I cannot blame them.

So I am taking a few weeks off from it all - from The Restaurant, The Tricking, and The Blog. The first 2 will be managed wonderfully in my absence, but the third - this blog - needs my time to sit, get some help with making her pretty again, and getting things back on track.

Thank you to my long time readers for being so loyal and for the wonderful e-mails. I do read them, I just don’t always have the time to reply to them. For those who left long ago - who can blame them. This place has become a broken down trailer, and it is time to fix that.

So on June 1st I will be back, refreshed, and hopefully all pretty and shiny. But in the mean time I will be posting links to food blogs I find along the way and have fallen in love with. I sit and look at all the shiny pictures and pretty colors and sigh with complete admiration and envy.

I want to be pretty and shiny when I grow up, too.

So I am on a break, but I will be back. Thank you for your patience.

And to the lady who sent me Vodka - you rock.