Diary of The Food Whore

The Bride stood next to me, clipboard in hand, checking and re-checking the seating arrangements.

The Wedding Planner had it all arranged according to “Agreeability” - what cousin could sit next to what aunt, who could sit next to what uncle, who could sit next to The Mother of The Bride. The Father of the Bride could not be anywhere the family of The Mother of the Bride. The Paternal Grandmother of the Bride could not be anywhere near the… oh, Hell, it was all so confusing. (I am sure I butchered the grammar… whatever… send me hatemail…)

The Bride’s parents were divorced in a bitter, never ending battle some 12 years ago, and the family divide was so deep there was talk of building a moat down the center of the ballroom. The day this girl had been waiting for all of her life had to be executed with the same precision as an invasion on foreign soil. Or the half-yearly sale at Nordstrom.

On our first meeting she warned us that there were family issues. And that while they did not concern us, we would likely get some battle scars along the way. She told us that up front to both warn us and to test our desire to actually want to take on such a challenge. We assumed she was giving us the worst case scenario in an effort to make whatever really did happen seem like a piece of cake.

Little did we know, an actual piece of cake would be the center of the firestorm that caused the kind of mayhem and tears you only really see when The Bachelor dumps some fool of a girl and sends her back to the limo crying wondering how she will ever replace the man of her dreams. But instead of seeing a desperate girl cry to the camera as she rides down the highway, this time it was a dejected Grandmother wailing over the injustice of no one wanting her Duncan Hines Cherry Chip Cake she insisted on baking for The Father of the Bride. The fact that The Bride had picked a gorgeous decadent chocolate cake from the best baker in town so infuriated The Grandmother that in an act of defiance she baked that cherry chip disaster in an effort to let it be known that someone had to give her son the respect that he so deserved.

So as we looked over the room and she checked her clipboard, she looked to me and said, “What do you think?” The only response that came to me at that very moment was the most honest one… “You should have eloped….”

Be careful what you wish for.

I was lying in bed last night reminding myself that I needed to find the funny in it all. That I needed to step back, see it all from a different perspective, and find the funny. I fell asleep with that thought bouncing in my head.

Unlike The Friend in California, I don’t need sheep to help me sleep. I need to think my way through it all, solve the world’s problems. Or rock out to some sort of 80’s song on The iPod, which when you think about it seems incredibly counterproductive. But something about that music and all the visuals of the big hair and acid washed jeans makes me pass out for fear of remembering the soul-crushing moment I first suspected George Michael might not like the girls so much.

Anyway.

At about 4:30 this morning I got my funny.

I woke myself up sneezing, and in the middle of trying to roll over and sit up I got too close to the edge of the bed, and in one fell swoop sneezed so hard I propelled myself right on to the floor.

The Husband continued to snore, subcontiously familiar with thuds in the night, and I grabbed a pillow to muffle the gut-busting giggles as I lie there on a scattered stack of cooking magazines.

Sadly, these moments don’t phase me anymore. Last week I also fell in my closet, so falling off the bed just seems like a natural next step. I am seeing a nice slip down the stairs to complete the tri-fecta I am working so hard to achieve to round out what has been a week of constant conflict.

It’s The Restaurant - she has been a test of patience in faith of late. Business is fine. But the staff - I’m kind of starting to believe alien pods from the planet Crazitarium have invaded them all. The issues are endless, the frustrations are mounting, and I am starting to think it may be time to walk away and open up a hot dog cart with a monkey who plays the banjo.

Your caterer doesn’t want to dance.

No amount of clapping, shouting, calling names from microphones or dragging will make it ok for Food Whores to do the Electric Slide.

Seriously, people.

So I’m in the grocery store last night.

I had just finished my nightly walk - a huge success, by the way. I didn’t trip over any small animals, or things like my own shoes.

Anyway, I was kind of looking like a hot mess, and wanted to just get in, grab my few items and get out of there. So I was in the baking aisle (I know what you’re thinking… were you lost?) And I heard a woman say, “So have you had the spotted dick?”

I was ready to say, ‘look, I realize I look tough but that’s no reason to make gross assumptions’ when I noticed she was asking a man that question. And then I felt, you know, like I was in the middle of the kind of conversation that only takes place in the free clinic.

He responded, “Not for a long time. My family has a spotted dick it is quite proud of.”

Braggart.

I guess.

After they walked passed me I looked up on the shelf and noticed this:

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I hate clowns.

I know, I know… what kind of black-souled human being can hate a clown?

Um, that would be me.

I guess, I don’t know, hate maybe is too strong a word.  But seriously, am I the only one who finds them.. creepy?  All painted big-shoed and horn-honkey.

To clarify - I did love JP Patches.  Because, a child who did not love JP Patches was a child who did not have a television growing up.  But the rest of them… it’s just unsettling. 

Clearly, I have issues.

So we’re talking with The Client the other day and she mentions they are going with a circus theme - the whole ’Big Top’ idea.  We discussed different options, set up, etc.  All very exciting and unique.

But then she said, “Oh!  And we will be having clowns serving cake!”

And then a little part of me died inside. 

Whirlwind days and nights and a lot of windshield time have given me a lot of time to think.  Blog, not so much, but the thinking has been crazy.

Thinking things like, “That’s a new smell in my car.  What could it be this time?”

Or, “Why did the bride lose her biscuit over the napkins.  She asked for red.  And while I understand she changed her mind - the morning of The Wedding - did it occur to her that I do not have ESP? And did it occur to her that her dress did come in a bigger size?”

 Or, “Hot long will this popcorn skin be stuck in my tooth before there is some sort of catastrophic infection that will cost me thousands of dollars at The Devil’s House The Dentist?”

Or, “I wonder if The Wannabe Client thinks calling me 14 times in 3 days will actually - and magically - change my calendar and make me not be booked the day she wants me.

 Or, “Wait… was that a stop sign?”

 Or, “Are those flashing lights for me?……”

Or, “I wonder if that is going to leave a stain…”

Lots of thinking.  Thinking of lots of things.  And food, always thinking of the food.  Like how certain foods remind me of certain places and moments in time.

For instance the aforementioned popcorn seed.  I was eating popcorn the night my blog died.  I will now forever associate popcorn with blog death.  Perhaps more butter and salt will cure that…

And whenever I eat a bagel I think of New York.

And whenever I eat a calzone I think of Virginia Beach.  I recently reconnected with The Friend in California and we were reminiscing about Virginia Beach and the swealtering heat of the day.  And while there was a lot to remember from that day, the one thing that always brings it back is Calzone.

And whenever I see Hollandaise I think of shoes.  And I think of shoes because yesterday I spilled an entire pan of hollandaise on my shoes…

Good times, people.

Good food… good times…

*Note… the old blog is still there.   http://thefoodwhore.com/index2.html

Nick Soutter.   A new friend introduced by a friend.

A new friend who is wildly intelligent, and extremely kind and patient with a girl who said, ‘um, yeah.  It’s broken.  It’s totally broken.’ 

It is all about servers and complicated (to me) stuff that I could not seem to make work.  And apparently, you know, a girl should upgrade things once and a while.  

Whatever.

What do I really know about upgrading?   I am still driving the same car

It was as simple as a few e-mails, a couple of phone calls and a nice Viola!  It’s done.  All set.

Mr. Nick rocks. 

I am hoping he can work the same magic on The Client - the client who has called no less than 5 times to trim the menu.  The Client who keeps rattling on and on about tight budgets.  The same client who said, “…just a simple buffet station in between the martini bars.”

I had to ask.

“Did you say martini bars…sss… as in plural?”

“Oh I misspoke.  What I meant to say was the martini bar and the daquiri bar.”

“You are having a martini bar and a daquiri bar.”

“Yes.  Oh, and a wine bar.  Well, beer and wine.”

“But your budget for the food is…”

“Limited.  We are really trying to pull this thing together on a shoe string.  The band was astronomical, but so worth it.”

“You have a band?”

“We do.  And they are fantastic.”

“So you have a martini bar, a wine bar, a daquiri bar… and a band…”

“Yes!  So much fun.”

I see.  We have enough money to bring Crazy Cousin Cathy into a drunken stupor while doing the electric slide, but we don’t have enough money to provide her with enough food to vomit in the coat closet.

I see.

Mr. Nick… it’s broken, it’s totally broken…

(Author’s Note:  Please be patient with the very vanilla site… I’m working on it…)

If you are as old as me, and watched as much Cheech and Chong as me, you know the rest.

Here I am.  Freshly birthed from the Hell that I call, “Um, I think my website crashed…seriously…something is amiss…”

I have a lot to say, a lot of sprucing up to do and I have a very awesome person to thank.  But I won’t use his name without permission.

But let me just say it on my terms;

He turned my big plate of frozen fish sticks into a gorgeous center-cut filet of fresh caught King salmon cooked on an open fire and topped simply with lemon butter and grey salt.

Good times, people.

Good times, indeed.