HOURS IN THE DAY DON'T ADD UP TO A LIFE

HOURS IN THE DAY DON'T ADD UP TO A LIFE

I left traditional art making behind even before I graduated from SFAI. I began my career as a Chef in earnest and felt the draw to return home to DC where I felt more a part of a long and distinguished tradition that began with the modern French Culinary Invasion of the late 60’s- 70’s. I loved/love the demanding fast paced life. It’s physical, creative, and mentally all consuming. My desire to create not just a dish but to inhabit the life as art entirely. Leading a brigade, being the head of a large team, orchestrating the entire flow and management of TIME throughout a day, the next, and the one after…  Culminating in the precise execution of exquisite cuisine. Knowing it was all borne out of me; my thoughts, emotions, skills and desires. The compliments that come at the end of the night. It is a high difficult to explain. The kitchen culture, community, atmosphere, I always saw it as a larger construct of myself and a way to build around me the things I loved. The Choice to be with people I thought understood me. Everything for a price. The cost of time, 80-100 hours a week for nearly 20 years, and now as many as 33 have passed. The cost of lasting companionship, inhabiting the persona of a strong self directed female with the weight of responsibilities and an all consuming passion leaves little room for anyone not equally consumed. For all my romanticizing of the life I loved so much there wash a lot of turmoil, sadness, frustration, and unrequited love. A life full of intense dysfunctional relationships. A profession that is still male and unequal. A man easily possessing a wife at home to do the laundry, carry the babies, hand you a beer, and pat you on the back for all your hard work. A partner.  My most notable partner, Duncan was co-chef with me at Restaurant Nora. He was handsome, funny, talented, adoring, and very alpha. It is an amazing aphrodisiac to practice your craft alongside someone you have a quiet unspoken spoken language of physical movement. The mania of it all sustained so long that the depressive aftermath was almost unsurvivable. Christina my savior, a debt I will never be able to repay. My life post, a series of unremarkable accomplishments. A pattern of short lived relationships and regrets for pushing lovers away, not trying harder to keep the ones I loved. And here now stagnated, isolated out of fear, I punish myself. Accepting and enabling an alcoholic abuser. Playing the role of Cinderella to a much kinder ‘step-mohter’. Staying only for my animals and the beauty of the forest. Weighing each day by the plusses and minuses of the equation. Not altogether unhappy.

A DEPRESSED GROUNDHOG

How is it that some people leave a such a lasting impression after a transitory passing in your life. Is it that they left the impression or you impressed them upon yourself. A selfish act to give life and importance to a moment left behind. An advantage never taken. In time you embellish the memory and fixate on what might have been.  Drunken blatherings of affection remembered with more intention. Like the saying, you can never go home again, expecting someones memories of the same events to match with yours, or have as much weight always leads to disappointment. Or the timing is off... Just like the first transitory passing and it's missed connection, the present missing connection is most likely the same misalignment of timing. Thinking you are looking into a reflection of your own desires only to see instead your shadow.

THE GLIDER
now gone, a life lived at Nora

Outside the kitchen door we sit on the glider.  Early morning coffee in hand.  The first sunlight warms the herb garden with inspiration.  The produce arrives and signals the start of work.  Whites on, wander into the walk-in, take inventory.  We drink more coffee and compromise the menu into being.  Prep lists. The butcher arrives, the saute, the grill, salad, pastry chef, service staff.  Kitchen humming, clock ticking, deadline approaching.  Like a dance service begins.  Orders are called, meats grilled.  Plates expedited out after just the right amount of curation.  The choreography is complicated but is given the finesse of route and practice.  You partner, then part and partner again all night.  Stepping like an elegant square dance through the weeds and back again.  Compliments come and the night ends in success.  Drinks with staff.  Beer, bourbon, and another beer before the next bar.  Sleep, sex, shower.  In the morning the glider is waiting again to greet you with the heady aroma of Holy basil.  More coffee.  Menu, prep, service, Bourbon, repeat.

1974
I found the veil in the dumpster behind my dad’s art studio; brand new and still in the box. Like a little boy in his Superman’s cape, I wore it everywhere. It was crisp and white with a pearl headband to keep it in place. A veil it seems really goes with any outfit, flowered sundress and purple clogs for day, red keds and jeans for play, or curled up for a nap with the cat. I don’t know when I stopped wearing it but I don’t think I have ever stopped playing make believe.
I got married when I was six and I’ve been married ever since, but I’ve never had a husband. Like a little girl, playing house, I wake up every morning ready to iron his work shirt and pack his lunch. He doesn’t even exist, my imaginary husband. I make the bed and fluff the pillows. I always cook dinner for two. I don’t have a husband. I don’t have a family.
I am still a child. 

4AD lost in DC

I spent a lot of time walking and revisiting old ghosts. 
Reflections in shop windows
Revealing lost moments of laughter and tears.
The summer rain fell with melancholy. 
I found this old portrait,
A sleeping beauty in storage.
My image within the image
We stand between our past, present, 
And the future untold still ahead to walk.