My Almost Vegan Quesadilla

Standing in the shower at 11 AM I realize the only thing I’ve eaten today is two pieces of toast – made with, you know the sandwich bread that advertises only 100 calories? That, and two cups of decaf coffee. What the hell is my world coming to? Counting calories and drinking decaf to rest my adrenals, that’s what.

Anyhow, I’m hungry and don’t want to go do errands on an empty stomach – that means I will be focused only on the food and spend tons of money at the grocery store on things I don’t even like. You know how everything looks good when you’re famished. So I have now gone from hungry to famished in just a few seconds. What can I say? Sometimes it is all about the food.

I visually run through my options while I wash my hair. What I do have is some delicious Split Pea Soup that I made a few days ago. It is yummy but after three days of it, well I need a change. No chips, no chocolate – in fact, there is no junk food in the house period. Nothing I can grab and snack to fill the void gnawing away in my belly.

I do have some veggies. I could actually make something relatively healthy and not particularly fattening – there I go again with those damn calories. They haunt my food psyche and I hate when that happens. What I really want is a chocolate chip cookie and milk; you know the big fat one that hold lots of real milk  (not the 2% or soy shit) when you dunk them? But, there are none to be found in this fat deprived household so I might as well let that image go.

I finish the shower, dry my hair, fix the face and go to the kitchen to whip something up that is good for me – or so they say, now (next week it will likely be bad for me). You remember when butter was so bad for us that we invented that plastic crap called margarine and thought we were doing something good? Well, we all know how that turned out and most of us have reverted back to the yummy, fat-filled butter. If you are still eating margarine God knows how much indigestible plastic is in YOUR body.

Let’s start with some extra virgin olive oil from Spain – sounds like a winner. Keep in mind that the vegetables that arrive in Homer, Alaska are usually already old when they get here, and their shelf life is limited. I dig around in the crisper and find some broccoli with a few flowerets that aren’t brown and gross, cauliflower that still has some white parts (cauliflower always reminds me of bleached-out brain matter, but I eat it anyway – not sure what that says about me?), a few grape tomatoes from a bunch that is quickly going south, and the garlic cloves that I roasted myself, along with a red pepper, a yellow pepper, a sweet onion, a baby new potato, a baby red potato, and a baby purple potato. Why did I clarify the size of these potatoes? Because I didn’t want you thinking I ate three normal sized potatoes in one Quesadilla! That’s why. How gross is that?

Add some chucky mild salsa and a bunch of cilantro that has been in the crisper for . . . a time, but still looked eatable, and a couple carrots that resemble prunes. Oh well, I will stir fry all this together and make something for lunch. It ain’t chocolate chip cookies but it will have to do. I tell myself I can get those at the bakery when I go to town but of course by that time I will be full of vegetables and the craving will have passed. Being a calorie counting bitch, I hope so anyhow. Otherwise I will be beating myself up for that one delicious cookie for the rest of my life.

So there you have it, my almost vegan Quesadilla. It is classified as “almost” because I accidentally (really?) added some cheddar cheese to the mix and then realized, ah shit. It’s not vegan any longer. But it is vegetarian. Guess I have to focus on the positive and enjoy the cheese.

There is definitely too much emphasis on trying to eat healthy these days - no meat, no cheese, no ice cream, no eggs, no milk, no sugar, no flour, no cream, no butter, no gluten, no nicotine, nothing processed, no booze, nothing fattening and definitely nothing over 1,000 calories/day. What the hell is left? Fuckin’ vegetables, grains and fruits, that’s what. In order to eat something delicious AND healthy we must become food artists, aka Foodies. It takes chopping, blending, spices, more chopping, kneading, more spices, stirring, whipping, sautéing, an incredible imagination, a good vegetable cookbook, and a hungry belly to pull it off.

And whose big bang idea was it to take all the fun out of everything, anyway? I would personally like to kick her ass! It has to be a woman bitch because what man do you know personally that cares about caloric intake, fat grams, cholesterol numbers, or being a few pounds overweight? That’s what I thought.

As the Tables Turn, Chapter 2

I’m back at the Elks Club for one more night of as the tables turn. We are busy but nothing like last week. Instead we have a steady stream of diners with only one glitch. I went to the bar to order two glasses of KJ Chardonnay and the bartender looked at me rather strange before uttering, “I don’t know what that is!” Yikes! We have a substitute bartender and she is definitely in the weeds. “White wine, and I will come back,” I reply on the fly, running back to the restaurant.

All twelve tables are occupied but the good news is the diners are staggered and I am able to get into a rhythm of serving them. Running the 75 feet to the bar to order and wait for drinks gets everything out of sync and I usually avoid it when we are busy. As I pass by the table that ordered the Chardonnay I hear: “we are getting our drinks, right?” I explain the bartender is backed-up but their wine is on the way. Impatient broads!

The night progresses without incident, the restaurant is clearing out and I am bussing dessert plates. The tab is given to the table and diners cash out directly with the bartender. I drop the ticket with the ladies that had Chardonnay and pick up their sundae bowls. One lady gets up to go pay leaving the other one alone at the table. I recognize Shawn as a local grocery checker. She leans into the table and says in a low tone:

“I’m going to tell you something but I don’t want you to be offended,” stopping me in my tracks. Of course when someone prefaces a comment like that, I’m on guard. But, I smile sweetly and say, “Yes?”

She looks down at my feet and hisses: “You need to get some different shoes that slide across the floor easier.”

“Excuse me? I love these shoes, and they work fine,” gazing down at my platform flip-flops that I wear when I can’t be barefoot, not sure where this conversation is going but sure it’s probably not to a good place.

“Well then, you are just Slow,” drawing out the word slooooow,  “but here’s five bucks anyhow,” as she presses the ones into the palm of my hand.

There it is out in the open, nothing subtle about it - the insult. Slow, I think? I’ve been running my ass off for three straight hours Tootsie. But I only smile, refusing to be put on the defensive by her harsh remark. I find myself automatically trying to explain that I am the only server here but she immediately interrupts “I know, I know - I’ve done this business for years.” Since she apparently knows everything there is to know about my job, I shut up.

I continue my rounds and the restaurant clears out. The more I think about her remark the more pissed off I get. So many responses come to mind after the fact, such as:

“You know Shawn, I think they might be hiring, maybe you want to put an application in?”

“If you’ve done this business for years, honey, why are you checking groceries now? I’m pretty sure this pays more.

“Yes I am slow, what’s your point?”

“Oh, these shoes are smashing. Men love them.”

But of course when someone tells you not to be offended, well the mind goes blank. The conversation continues to plays over and over in my head - Sliding shoes? What the hell are they? I have a vision of gliding across the floor with the tray held high above my head moving from table to table with the greatest of ease. But when I look down at my feet, I see roller skates! Maybe she has the Elks Club confused with Hooters. Maybe I should get a tank top, push my tits up, wear short shorts and skate my way around the tables flaunting my ass? Now that’s a scary thought.

So as it were, I have let the insult go, using it as inspiration for yet another chapter of “As the Tables Turn.” It is rather funny, hilarious in fact when you think about it. Who the hell does she think she is criticizing my shoes? Can you imagine? I don’t even think she’s an Elks member, but merely a guest. Interesting she did not say this in front of her friend that is a member, but waited until she left to pay the bill. This friend gave me a 20% tip on her credit card so with Shawn’s additional five dollars, well I did better than okay.

I do have a fantasy for the next time I see her around Homer town. I will stop, pull her aside and say in a low voice:

“Shawn, I want to tell you something but I don’t want you to be offended. You really need to adopt a more positive attitude.”

And when she says she has one?

“Well then, you’re just a bitch,” drawing out the word bitch. “Here’s five bucks to get a personality,” as I press the ones into the palm of her hand.

As the Tables Turn, Chapter I

On Friday evenings I wait tables at the Elks Club Lodge. For those of you not familiar with the Elks, it’s a national private club with members all over the US. If you belong to the Elks Club (or Emblem Club for women) you are welcome at any Lodge by simply showing your membership card.

In Homer they have a weekly sit down dinner with a choice of two entrees. For anyone that has been a server you know how stressful it can get when ‘you’re in the weeds,’ restaurant lingo meaning slammed. I work here because it is a relaxing gig with the same weekly crowd and only occasional visitors from other locations, plus it gives me some human interaction away from dog camp. Dinner is served from 6-8:30 and I usually walk out with at least $100 in tips plus $9.25/hour, leaving early enough to still have a Friday night.

The routine is members go directly to the bar for a few cocktails before meandering in for dinner. The crowd is normally staggered so that it’s never slammed at any one time in the dining room, just nice and steady. The bar is approximately 50-75 feet away and there are no cocktail servers. Volunteers man the entire place with only a few paid positions such as the Chef, responsible for prepping, cooking and washing dishes, a bartender that serves the bar and restaurant, and one server.  Members normally go to the bar, get their drink and return to the dining area. And when it does get backed up in the kitchen members are happy to volunteer their help. It’s the family type atmosphere that keeps me out of the weeds most of the time.

On this particular evening we are offering a choice of Prime Rib or Stuffed Halibut for entrees.  I know from experience that Elks members are meat eaters and love Prime Rib night. The bartender has warned us that we might get busy tonight. Straight-up 6 o’clock a few unfamiliar ladies come in and request a table for thirteen people. Since they are the only ones in the restaurant at the time I offer to get their drinks from the bar and help move tables together to accommodate their group that will continue to drift in over the next hour to join Table #12. 

In just a short time the entire dining room fills up, with everyone sitting down in the space of about five minutes. The choice of Prime Rib has caused them to by-pass the bar and come directly to the dining room in search of the Meat. I find myself with twelve tables of four to six people, plus the table of 13 to take orders, get salads, bus salad dishes, bring on the entrees, bus those dishes, take dessert orders, clear those plates, give them the bill and send them to the bartender to settle up. OMG! Where are the volunteers when I need them? In the swarm of people I only see a few familiar faces, instead we have a dining room full of visiting Elks members that are staying in MoHo’s in the parking lot. The bartender is trying desperately to help with salads but she too is slammed at the bar and can’t get away. Chaos ensues, so much for a relaxing night.

Frantically taking orders, I manage to get my head out of the weeds long enough to notice that Table #12 is now all seated and flagging me for more drinks. I tell them they have to order drinks at the bar and begin taking their dinner orders. The server’s nightmare, everyone at Table #12 wants something substituted or extra, with a gazillion questions. All the while out of my peripheral vision, I see other diners glaring at me with raised eyebrows and thumping fingers on tabletops, waiting. . .  I finally have the order of nine prime rib dinners and four stuffed halibut entrees for Table #12. On the fly I get their salads and ‘special’ dressings that I manage to drop off without another special request. I turn the order into the Chef, while I continue to serve, bus, take orders from waiting customers and basically run my ass off.

About 15 minutes later I go in the kitchen and the Chef tells me the dreaded news. We ran out of Prime Rib just before Table #12’s order appeared on the round. OMG, I have to tell them? Holy Shit! I can offer them rib-eye steaks but they will have to thaw and it will take some time. Lovely. . . I return to the table and say: “I have some bad news, we just ran out of Prime Rib. I can offer you Rib-Eye Steaks but they need to thaw so it may take some time, or you can have the halibut.” Silence. . . before the eruption.

“This is unacceptable, totally unacceptable,” replied the lady in charge. “We came here last Saturday night thinking we could have dinner and then found out it was only served on Friday, and now this? We were here promptly at 6 PM (3 of them were and they were interested in drinking and waiting to order) and we want Prime Rib.” (tough shit, honey. I smile through clenched teeth, as she rants on wondering how much of my time she is going to waste). Finally she came up for air and I jumped in. . . 

“I’m sorry madam but there’s really nothing I can do.” I say. One couple rises to leave, while eight people order the steak and the other four stick with their original stuffed halibut order. I return to the kitchen with the new order, tell the bartender their response and tend to the rest of the restaurant, serving the last of the prime rib to the table next to them (I don’t get mad, just even). The bartender goes to the table gives them a complimentary round of drinks and offers the ones that had ordered Prime Rib a voucher for a free dinner the next time we serve prime.

By this time it is close to 8 PM and the other tables are finally winding down. I now have an aversion to Table #12. Every time I pass by they want to change something on the order, request another extra, or ask how much longer it’s going to be (how the hell would I know that, I’m not cooking). There comes a time when an invisible line is crossed and you know, no matter what food you serve, they will find fault. Exasperating to say the least, I can’t wait to see their backsides. But first, there is more drama.

After approximately 45 minutes the steaks are done. Huge slabs of meat adorn the plates with garlic mashed potatoes and vegetables. I get the dinners served and wait about ten minutes before checking to see if everything is okay. A cranky, pinched, wrinkled-face woman spoke up first: “this is the toughest, worst halibut I have ever had in my life.” At this point I just smile and move on, what can I say anyhow? There are no more choices, dinner has official ended. I walk to the other end of the table waiting for someone, anyone to compliment the steak. Nada, no one said a thing as they chow down on the meat. The side show is a lady at the other end stabbing, poking and jabbing her fork into the rubbery halibut demonstrating to anyone watching just how tough it is, mumbling her dissatisfaction for all to hear. I pass by smiling sweetly, all the while muttering FU under my breath.

I return to the kitchen to report the comments. Well, it turns out since we had to wait for the steaks the halibut got cold. And the Chef, if you want to call him a Chef – more like a cook – had nuked it. “WHAT? You nuked the halibut?” was all I could say. OMG, let’s just dry it out and make jerky, shall we? Obviously it was tough as shoe leather. There goes my tip - out the window – and after all the abuse I’ve endured from Table #12.. . . The Cook and I have history. Last week he announced the special was Seafood Fettuccini and he used linguini noodles. Seriously? I insisted he rename the dish to Seafood Pasta. Duhhhh. What the hell?

Maybe I can salvage some part of this situation yet. I went back to the table and offered them free desserts of Chocolate Decadence with Ice Cream. Of course they all took me up on it without even as much as a thank you. Never mind the thank you, just leave the money - I continue to keep the smile on my face. They licked their dessert plates clean but not one of them admitted it was good. In fact, not one of them said a nice thing about anything they ate. I found out later the bartender had also taken the halibut dinners off the tab. OMG will I ever turn this table and get the hell out of here. It is now 9:30, so much for MY Friday night. The good news, well they did leave me a decent trip after all was said and done.

I was telling my son, who is a Behaviorist about this incident. His response was that we had merely reinforced their complaining behavior by giving them freebies. He has an elderly client that has made a habit of complaining in every restaurant he goes to and ends up with a free meal and dessert every time. This man has not paid for dinner out in over a decade. Obviously there is something to be said about offering too much when things go wrong. 

I was definitely not sorry to see Table #12 leave, saving my breath of relief until the door actually closed and locked behind their asses. I just hope to hell I’m not working on the night they choose to use their free Prime Rib dinner vouchers. I don’t think I can endure the complaining that no doubt will occur, with a fake smile on my face. 

And, if the Cook nukes the halibut again I will personally strangle him.

Bon Appétit!

Snowed In?

OMG will it ever quit?

I got up at 5AM to be sure I could get my car out of the driveway before bothering to get dressed for school. Meems went straight up the hill after a couple tries. I parked her at the top and it continued to snow and blow another 2.5 hours before I left. I barely made it off Katie Jean Circle. And then the blizzard from hell hit at noon and I could hardly see to get from the middle school to the high school, traveling through the center of town. Called my neighbor about roads at the house and her suggestion was to get my butt home and cancel the rest of the afternoon at school.

Returned to the high school and called the body shop guy about a plastic part for Meems that is missing off the bottom (ripped it off in the last blizzard from hell) and I have to worry about packing snow up there and shutting down the alternator and battery like on Christmas Day. Leland had just received the part that was flown down from Anchorage, so I talked him into letting me drop the car off after school and him drive me home!

Before he agreed to do this I had to check road conditions first. I called the taxi company and they said East Hill Road was one lane and it was horrible with whiteout conditions at the top (where I live). OMG will I ever get home? I called my neighbor again and she said the city had finally plowed Katie Jean (music to my ears) but I needed to hurry because it was still snowing like crazy. Forget my driveway - I don't need it anyhow since Meems is spending the night in a toasty warm garage.

Getting from the high school to the garage near Pudgy's on East End Road (couple miles) was a struggle as it was snowing like hell and every time a car passed me my view turned completely white causing me to lose all sense of time and space. Geez! Told Leland the roads were fine - no need to elaborate about what they were like before being plowed. We got in his big, bad, warm truck and he drove Anne and I home without incident. Katie Jean Circle was fine, but my driveway? Well, I didn't have one as you can imagine. No problem though it's only a hundred yards or so, no farther than a football field. I was grateful just to see my house, finally!

Anne, who went for grooming today, and I plowed through the driveway snow - up to my thighs and she was buried (and freezing with her short haircut), to get to the front door. All the dogs were barking - but only mine today, thank goodness. They were inside all day without a potty break and did great, but WOW did they have to go. They immediately ran outside, stopped, looked at me with that confused look that said: WHERE? They were up to their necks in the white stuff. I told them to do what you gotta do so they did - standing up - no squatting. How does one squat when the butt is already on the ground they wondered?

I now have all six dogs in front of a warm woodstove and the plow guy just finished the driveway.

I am good to go in the morning with a taxi to the middle school, and then back to the high school at noon (no idea how yet). Hopefully Meems will be ready tomorrow afternoon and the sun will be shining (it's suppose to be, you know). It is still blowing and snowing as we speak.

What a day in the Greatland. It's hard to imagine those fools on the beaches in Hawaii. Oh, wait. I've got that all wrong. I'm the one trying to once again figure out exactly WHY I decided to stay here for the winter. I'm exhausted just thinking about it!