It’s been a while since I’ve done anything really tangible for the blog. I have been dealing lately with themes of fear and recognition, the formidable burden of being known and knowing oneself (S/o Elenore Shellstrop iykyk). It’s hard to fathom how drastically my life has changed in the past month. I have some updates on my own life, then I will share the new item I have checked off my list.

Firstly, I broke up with my partner of almost one year, with whom I had moved to Portland and rented an apartment together. The change was for the best, and my life has been so much more my own of late. I now live in the studio apartment on my own, and although I did not anticipate paying the entire rent myself, I think that for the duration of my lease, it will be doable. I have been greatly enjoying living on my own again, and have been pleasantly surprised by how little I’ve actually had to be alone since she moved out.

On that note, I met someone on the first of October, and now, on the first of November, they already seem to be a focal point in this new life that’s forming around me. In the style of Portland, we remain label-less, a dynamic that is as new for me as it is natural. I’ve enjoyed navigating a relationship that is never more than I want at any given time; incorporating intimacy in its many forms without expectations. I feel more at home here now, as if Portland really is the right place for me. I have much to learn and much more to experience, and I am so looking forward to what other changes Portland may bring as time goes on.

Career-wise, I was recently given the promotion at work that I had been so desperately vying for. Technically it’s a demotion, putting me back into a position I have worked many times in many different places, but I think that’s why I wanted it. Soon, I will have a consistent schedule with rarely more than 50 hours a week at Hilton. In the works as well, a chocolate company that wants to hire me part-time as an executive pastry chef/chocolatier. The story is absurd and surreal, and I will tell it more in-depth at a later time, once the dust has settled.

Finally, it was on my list to go to a poetry reading or open mic and read an original poem. I had been planning, since I wrote the list, to read a specific poem but I decided last minute that piece no longer felt relevant to me. Instead, I shared something I began writing during my culinary school externship in Big Sur. I finished it right before the reading. It took place in a tiny eclectic coffee shop called “Dragonfly Coffee House” that hosts an open mic every few weeks. I brought with me two friends, both of which are English majors at heart. Neither of them planned to read anything, but both caved in and read beautiful pieces. I am glad I went and was surprised at how good I felt afterward.

Here is the poem I read (I can’t figure out how to fix the formatting):

Sous vide duck breast with Marcona almonds

Precious little portions, 

Twenty different courses

A never ending supply of petite and unreachable.

how-did-they-do-that?

what-is-that-made-of?

compliments-to-the-chef.

Zero thoughts to all the others who make the kitchen go round.

For us, we are grateful to be there

In the presence of excellence

In the shining light of Chef, our hero, our Lord, our Savior

That line was blasphemous, yes, but we don’t get 

Sundays off anyway.

A week off in August.

I cook for my family

Precious little portions.

“Delicious” they say, “but where’s the rest of it”?

I have become used to fastidiousness

Rules that have been beaten into me remind:

4 oz of pasta on a plate

2 oz of sauce

How many pieces of garnish?

And it all must be served hot, so move quickly.

When I shopped for groceries 

I looked for “organic” “non-GMO” 

And when I dined out, words like “farm-to-table”

and “local-growers” caught my eye. I reveled

in my particularity and speculation.

I turned up my nose at corn byproducts and 

Overly processed oils.

Every bite was calculated, methodology that was backed by science

And by the knowledge that my parents wouldn’t understand.  

I’ve cleared the toxins from my diet

but can’t get them out of my life.

As a kid we ate mac and cheese with

Processed hot dogs from the food bank.

Cheese quesadillas for breakfast and crackers for lunch

And mom and dad would skip dinner when they 

said they were tired. Even as kids, we weren’t fooled.

Years ago, sitting on the edge of my bed,

My dad tried to warn me that I was too ambitious.

It only took a few months to prove him wrong

And now when he’s finished with the dinner I made him

He can eat his words as well.

But he never will; those words were bitter, acrid on the palate;

It’s easier to turn them down and opt for something sweeter.

But I’m tired of trying to make myself more palatable for him.

I waited and prayed and held my breath in the hopes that one day…

One day what?

In a well-run kitchen, everything is planned.

In a well-run kitchen, food is prepared using techniques that were

Carefully taught, dutifully studied, and now executed with an 

Excess of casualty. 

The connotation of the food you serve is far more valuable 

Then the actual level of quality.

Food can be made to taste better or impress more

Simply by adding a backstory,

A methodology,

Giving context to each bite and meaning to each calorie.

When I was younger, I cooked for them nightly.

I never thought about my technique, my methodology,

My fastidiousness or acridity.

I never once reveled in my snobbishness, or considered

The context behind a dish. 

But those nights of cooking for them were my context

So now I will starve myself like my mother

And her mother before her

And the Chef All Mighty will be impressed by

Just how much value I can give to a single calorie

And by how many tiny precious portions it takes to satiate ambition.