Raised in the rural Pacific Northwest overlooking an oyster beach, orca whales, navy submarines & the distant lights of Seattle. Electricity came from an orange extension cord & showers were outdoors or at Grandparents house. (Also at Grandparents was PIE & Murder She Wrote. A haven of love and sanity.) We were usually strict vegetarians. My Dad was a former Buddhist monk. He continued to practice daily and preferred a military schedule. In order to get out of the worst of the chores, I became the family cook. My specialty was deluxe grilled cheese and overcooked veggie stir fry. Sweets were verboten with the exception of cheese danishes after dump runs in town or tiramisu at a fancy restaurant. Thus my lifelong obsession with the celebratory nature of dessert. The comfort of it. The lively tastes & glorious texture.
I went back to school at 37 to study Baking at Edmonds Community College.
This was.. humbling. Polyester checkerboard mens pants, chef coat with baggy arms and tight hips, chef hat that must cover all of your hair. No one caught on fire though. Cooking for work is a nearly impossible dream. How many restaurants fail? Especially now? 1 in 6? 1 in 3?
In the years since school, I have been a dessert caterer, housekeeper/breakfast cook, coffeeshop owner, at boutique grocery store, & counter person for my friend’s soul food pop-ups. I am still fine tuning how to stay true to my vision & pay the bills. How anyone manages to make a profit on a custom cake is mind-boggling. How can you not use Vahlrona chocolate, vanilla beans and locally grown fruit?
Working alone at night at the coffeeshop preparing cinnamon rolls, scones, cardamom coffeecake with local grains, cookies and biscotti for the next day while binging on Queen of the South feels like a crazy dream. I wish I could tell that lonely fearful girl I used to be that it gets better. Even better than that is working in a tight crew of chef, line cooks and high school dishwasher. Each person chopping, moving, sautéing, mixing, cracking jokes at optimum capacity. Otis Redding on the speaker. Can you try this? More salt? Feeling supported and inspired. That is the thing that REALLY HUMS.
VI
Thirty years in this world
I wandered a thousand miles,
By rivers, buried deep in grass,
In borderlands, where red dust flies.
Tasted drugs, still not immortal.
Read books, wrote histories.
Now I'm back at Cold Mountain,
Head in the stream, cleanse my ears.
Poem exerpt by Han-Shan, Master of Cold Mountain, late 8th century-early 9th century AD