Catching Up

I have been a tad MIA for almost a month. After my last fiction piece, March became very interesting. Mr. “Mama calm down” guy ended up not working out, phew, so I never had to pull a Hela on him. Again, sigh of relief. But life got very busy. Work has been so busy.

But first, lets talk fun things. I have been writing some poetry for my Instagram account. I have a separate account that I post just poetry and snippets of poetry. One account I follow puts out prompts and I have been inspired. So I have had four or five poems that have come from the prompts and one or two others from just the inspiration. It’s felt really good to be writing again after a mid winter freeze that came after pouring out my heart in November and early December.

So I am going to include some of them right now. Since I don’t think I plan to publish any of these…

The first two images are one poem combined, the rest are all their own. Little things that are fun, meaningful, light. A little bit of everything. I have one poem that I started about my name as I am known as K at work. Well, I introduced myself to someone with my whole name. It was a weird and luxurious feeling. Almost kind of sexy. To a guy nonetheless, not that it went anywhere with said guy. But it was the principle of the thing.

I’m trying to stay motivated to write. It helps that I am making an effort to read it more and listen to it more. I am more inclined to write poetry if I listen to it. For those interested, you can follow my poetry Instagram account at k.andb.poetry

Now onto life. Chaos perpetuates. I sit here writing with nine fingers as last Sunday night I managed to slice off the tip of my left index finger. I looked up while slicing something, and part of my finger went with it. Shivers. Bleeding ensued, panicking boss, a super busy Sunday…. it could have been worse, it could have been better… Life goes on. My finger is much better and I have most of my nail, but it’s going to be a bit different for a while. And because of what I did, I was unable to continue working the same at work. Instead of crazy busy pizza line, I was in the back tackling prep, desserts, and *drum roll* working on expoing. So, what is expoing?

Expo or expoing
The Expo Station is the station between the line and dining room. Whoever works this station, whether it’s the chef, sous, or a front of house manager, is the expo. They call your tickets, garnish your plates, and, if the plating is complicated, plate the food.

https://www.browardpalmbeach.com/restaurants/kitchen-slang-top-ten-words-youll-hear-behind-the-line-6391915

So for the last three days I have been doing this. Expoing is short for Expediter. Though not quite as particular as actually plating things. I do garnish and sauce a lot of things. I know what goes with the dishes, so I am getting things ready as Jersey Boy and Will Turner are plating. Astro D got stuck doing doubles all week on pizza. But for once, I was so unstressed that I feel like I’m getting a mini vacation even though I’m working. And I expoed way back three years ago when I was working with Wildflower and Lucifer and our first chef. I loved it then even with the bullshit that was going on with the three of them. Jersey Boy is much easier to expo for than I thought. Plus I also dash around getting things for the line and pizza. Plating desserts, hunting down our GM and getting answers. As much as I love pizza, I love expediting almost more. Partly because I am liking less stress. A whole heck a lot. Personally, I wouldn’t mind being off pizza for another week at least. My only other wish is that I had had a chance to expo for Coffeeman.

And lastly, I am taking the managers food safety course in less than a month. I want to have the licence and knowledge for future job performance. I’m excited as I have wanted to know this for a while. I won’t be able to be in pizza forever. I’m almost 4-0…. gads, I’m almost 40! So I won’t be ultimate pizza girl forever, but who knows what the future holds.

So enjoy the poetry. And the update.

Kate

Where Does The Time Go

Summer is more than half over and my writing life took a sharp turn south to non existent. At least here. It’s not like I’m not writing, but I haven’t pulled out my laptop to type but for some poetry a couple weeks ago. My journal is almost full after another year and a half. (my journals always take a year and a half to fill) and I have been writing this and that. Noting about life other than random observations. I feel like life is so heavy that I can’t write about life. Notes to become poems, or thoughts, but rarely anything deep.

Can we do over 2020? Not like actually all the crap that has gone on, but can’t we just chalk this up to a no go year? That being said, I feel like I have gotten places in my writing I might not have gone before. Nathan and I were texting the other day and he commented that one of my poems wasn’t my usual norm. Ha ha, he hasn’t seen my notebooks. But he is right. I sometimes spew off this super long poem with no stopping and no breaks and no punctuation and it’s like I just let a balloon spew out its air, whizzing around the room. Like I couldn’t contain it and I had to just throw it all out in a rush.

I bottle up my thoughts, opinions and emotions a lot, but when I let them out, usually it’s in a rush, a dumptruck of thoughts poured out on the ground. No organization to them. Sometimes cluttered and rarely making sense. Sometimes poems get like that. I can’t contain the box they are in. Personally, I’m rather fond of those kinds. At least of my own. I usually make the point I want without censoring myself. I’m rather proud of some of those poems.

Now what do I do with them. Again, Nathan asked if I was going to get any in print. I want to, but where? It’s all I can do to write the poems. I don’t have the oomph to hunt for journals to submit. Does anyone want to be an assistant and do the research for me? Pretty please? Darlings, I’d pay you in endless gratitude and the option to have me bake you a goody if you happened to be in northern CA and stopped in at the restaurant.

And that ^  is why I can’t get writing done. Work. I am swamped at all points. My day is so busy from the minute I walk in till I leave. I have a boss on my station in the morning who doesn’t believe he needs to do the prep and leaves most if not all of it for me to do, along with, yes, I am still full force making all the desserts. And I have had an entree added to my station that is adding in time. I fire ribeye steaks in my oven and I have gotten pretty decent at it. But for an already taxed station to adding that in. Well, let’s just say my life is one constant busy.

Even on my days off I’m thinking work. Or pestered by work. I want a weekend where I don’t have to think about work. It would be different if I was the chef in charge. But since I’m not, nor am I being paid to be, I want to not think about work.

And now dishes and lunch are calling me. Forget writing again.

Kate

 

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If A Cowboy Picked Up A Handkerchief – Poem

Photo by Mubariz Mehdizadeh on Unsplash A modern Cowboy?

There’s this guy I like. But sliding into his DM’s so did not work. So, once this Covid thing is over, I don’t suspect anything will ensue. But for the last month, since I knew where he lived, and where his parents lived I figured I might just see him passing the highway when I walk. Why I would assume the time I walked would be “The” time makes no sense.  But since when does fascination ever have any sanity. And there I was, every day, glancing up at every truck that whizzed on by.

 

If A Cowboy Picked Up A Handkerchief

Every day I walk, to the highway
where when a truck barrels down the blacktop
I look up hoping it’s him.
Just to wave and give my heart a boost of giddiness.
A touch of wishful thinking.
It’s not like I have a chance.
Since sliding into his DM’s was a complete splat—
A faceplant. A trip made on flat ground.
A wobbly ankle in stiletto heels—
How do you know if he likes you?
If you have to ask, then maybe you should
move along, pardner.
He ain’t gonna tip his hat at you, ma’am,
or pick up that hanky you just had to happen to drop
in front of his horse.
More n’ likely the horse is gonna pick it up
munch on the lace and linen.
Considering he’s a bit of a pie bald bug-eyed crazy cracked in the head
crazy son of a gun of a horse.
Maybe his cowboy is a two-bit crazy too.

Kate

A Ripple of Distortion – Poem

It’s so weird. Tax day came and went, the three month mark of my grandmother’s death is today, I need to talk to Jersey Boy about coming back to work, Covid-19 has taken it’s toll on the country. I fight against my body. My sugars dropping every day as I become more and more like my father. Menopause makes me moody. I forgot that when I talked to Nathan this last week and mentioned I was moody on Easter. I forget that I can go from bright and cheery to gray cloud and teary in a flash. As fast as my sugar falls. Hostess Extraodinaire, I need Pepsi, stat!  No, I just need normal.

I combined all thoughts and it kind of flowed into this poem that while not perfect, has it’s points. We all feel a little indecisive. And poet Susan Wooldridge challenged me last year to write a poem about lettuce. I never got around to having anything that worked, until adding it into this gem today. So much is in here, unpacked, emotional. I know Christa would understand. Dona and Mels too.

And for a chuckle, watch this bit from an old NBC show called  Ed. It explains a line from this poem.

Photo by Jordan McDonald on Unsplash

A Ripple of Distortion

It’s tax day, but taxes aren’t due.

Overcast — the sky is more subdued
less spangle sparkle bright — perfect.

I wake up praying. Things are so uncertain.

A line of wobbly silver reflection run down the page
a mosaic of reflection as effective as a rippling pool
distortion is only as good as the subject known
A cow could be a boulder
a tree turns to a feather

What if I’m not who I seem to be?
Maybe I’m not who you’ve ever known

Plant lettuce seed, it looks like a weed
until it has three fourfivesix leaves
say it funny, Le-toose, it’s not what it seems till it is.

What have I become? Where do I fit in ?
I bite, snarl, fall apart into a puddle of razor blade teeth.
Sugar coat me and I’ll be as sweet as the sun is fierce.
Take me out in the rain, I melt
you see the rust hiding under a silk exterior

I’m a heartbeat of uncertainty
a weight of indecision
my feet slap the pavement
I’ve walked more miles than you could imagine
wearing a hole in the asphalt,
a groove runs down my pat
parallel to the imaginary yellow lines.

I’m wobbly two faced in the tiled reflection
Two things at war.
Let me get back to the thick of things.
Or let me sit in the sun and take in all the sky has to pour down on me.

Move Forward In Grace – Poem

When I write something good, I hate to post it here because I think, Ooh, maybe I can submit it. But I think right now while we are all a little anxious, we could all use a little poetry in our lives. I hope this all means something for each one of you.

Photo by Matthias Müllner on Unsplash

I read an Instagram post about how we all need a little extra grace these days. If that isn’t the truth!  And if you know anything about ravens, they are solitary creatures. I think writers gravitate towards ravens. Poe, well, he was best known for them. But I love them. All of their aspects and they chatter out this wooden marimba sound when they are in trees. It sounds like they are playing instruments. I love hearing it. I channeled a bit of Cinderella, and Lucy from It’s Christmas, Charlie Brown, and all kinds of thoughts. Short, but sweet.

Moving Forward in Grace

Now in the key of raven,
Sing sweet nightingale, sing sweet–
No no! That isn’t it at all.
While spring is in the lawnside violets
Granite snow and ice hunker down up on highest peaks
Topsy-turvy is how we all feel right now.
Let’s all give each other some extra grace
Pulled out of a pocket, see, shiny as a raven’s treasure
All in the key of raven now,
We tinker, we give, we’ve become solitary birds
We fly solo back to our roots
Don’t forget to shed those black feathers when the sun comes out!
And the old pine sits there in a setting sun
Maybe we can all move forward with a bit of grace
Some for you, some for me, go crazy and grab a handful of starbright wishes
You can’t have a monopoly on too much kindness.

Kate

2 AM Is For – Poem

This is something from puttering around with all kinds of thoughts in the last week and a half. From meeting this guy that I just now can’t get to know for a bit…. Thank you Covid-19, I hate you right now.  To big 1980s hair and makeup and smelling my grandparents cabin in an instant déjà vu moment. The lava soap on the counter, Irish Spring soap in a metal shower. And well, wishing for a little more than I have right now. Ah, spring is in the air. Here I go again.

2AM Is For

Smell Lava soap , a linger of a déjà vu of a memory
Stepping into the side door of the cabin’s
washroom
mudroom
bathroom
laundryroom
to the upstairs and all else room
Concrete sinks, and propane and the old wood and canned food pantry
Lingering odors
When 2 AM rolls around and the Irish Spring bubbles spiral
down the metal shower drain
spreadsheets have been left behind, sitting open on a screen
Orderly columns and rows, lists for this, itemized for that—
For standing naked in a mirror, curls bouncing on your shoulders
a nineteen eighties fashion girl, big makeup, big hair
Maybe he’s watching a film
Maybe you’re hoping for more than might be there
But you wear your hair down a little more, a little longer
Maybe he’s drinking that drink you wish you were sharing
And you dress a little more carefully
2 AM isn’t for the mundane, it’s for the magic
Past the witching hour,
When all the poets are awake
When night air slips in through screens
Taste the ice on the tongue, mountain’s metal coldness a cold cloak
To your Gypsy’s hide, it’s been tanned smoothed down soft and skin fresh
Aquamarine earrings swing back and forth
Put on a little Pharrell and dance around naked
Your unbridled you, that part of yourself you hide all day
Moonlight could be your sunlight
You are the alive in these waking hours
a longing for something to happen
when colors and magic spells flow
out of your fingers and the air shakes and shimmers around you
Spin out, spin around, dress in silks and feathers,
2 AM is the time to roost and let the whispers in
let the shimmering bubbles slide down the drain
2 AM is for…

‘

“I Adore Order…” – Poem

‘I adore order,’ she says, but as things start to slide-
‘as you can see, I’m anything but orderly!’
Distracted, absentminded, I may love Mise en Place,
but damn if I can stay en place…

Drawers open, contents spilling outward

socks
handkerchiefs
lacy underthings

counters linger in disarray,

notes
loose cash
rhinestone jewels

flashing amongst miscellany
I tweak her OCD, cluttered and disorganized
the dough is kneading in a mixer as I race
out to stoke a fire leaving a wake of flour
She follows behind organizing, straightening
Opposites attract, north and south magnets

You know, the hardest part of my life is putting myself away.
Close a drawer, put the feather earrings away.
There is a lone bobby pin on a shelf
And a lone coffee cup, mostly empty, lipstick imprint
sitting on a table, or the front desk as I make my way
out the door and breezing off to another place
where my en place is not in place…

Kate

We Are Not Friends, But He Is Home – Prose

Photo by PHUOC LE on Unsplash

We are not friends. We are not lovers. We are something unknown. Standing side by side as confidants, secure in our random trust for each other. He is the strength and knowledge. The quiet before the storm. I am the storm. The whirlwind force. I am the fighting words, he is the calming down. He is the soft and waiting, I am the ready and diving in. Opposites attract, they say. We couldn’t be more different. Or more alike. He’s the future, I’m the past, or the present, or maybe I am the future. He’s tall, I am short. Side by side we stand arms intertwined. He leads, I follow. I direct, he bows down. It’s more than two people. It’s one entity standing against what? Who is to know. We aren’t friends just yet. Barely do I know more than his name, or the way he takes his coffee. But I know he has the world at his fingertips. He’s the answers. I’m the questions. We aren’t lovers. Though we could be. He’s the flowing winds. I’m the earth beneath your feet. Standing on a pedestal, he is king. Seated on a throne, I am a queen. Give and take, push and pull, I’d trust him with my life. We are not friends, but we will be one. We are not the lovers, yet we shall love. He bows to me, and I to him. He is home, and safety and rest. I am sleep, and strength and beginnings. We’ll step forth into the storm, a rock, marble, nothing tumbling us. We are the beginning.

 

I had this super vivid dream yesterday morning that left me kind of reeling. Where I met this man who was like this gentle giant. Tall, like really tall, like my head came only to the middle of his chest. And we barely knew each other, but we were going to work with each other and I was going to help him become this classically handsome guy, classy, and wearing button downs and sweaters and ties and looking all nerdy cute because he wrote for a newspaper. And we just had this connection and it was lovely, and I woke up wishing I could meet him because he was perfect, and it was the two of us against the world. So, I wrote something tonight. Whatever it is. Prose, poetry, fiction. Take it as you will. It was all lovely.

Sigh.

Kate

Sex is Food is Life – Poem

Chefs say food is sexy;
maybe they mean sex on a plate.
Each drizzle of sauce; a finger wipes up a loose drop.
The Mayans
or was it the Aztecs?
believed blood was their life force,
the Romans, water, wine, and God.
I am nothing more than art deco in the wrong time
except for the cigarette in my mouth
the one I don’t smoke but have sampled
from the one you took a drag on, the taste still warm.
I crave oysters, but I can’t eat them.
Filling my body with a poison, I vomit the sea,
the life force, emptied from my body
never more shall I taste it.
Water cures all your ails.
Cry, sweat, or go to the sea.
I say, it’s not just water, but salt water.
I dream of food, never tasting.
I don’t mean I wish to eat,
I dream, fantastical things where food is the bite,
the taste of bon amis.
I sink my teeth into a problem and bite down.
I don’t taste my creations but for the finger
swirled on a plate to catch a last drop.
My sex life is the same.