“Shit, I’m late. Stop at the stop sign. Hurry, Hurry, Hurry. Don’t hit the little Mexican school kids. Go! You can turn on Red – Go. Around the bus and onto the freeway. Outta my way, please. I’m late. Come on, please let me get over. Excuse me, go. Oh, what beautiful wildflowers in the canyon – yellow and purple. Is that lupine? Ah, I’m here with five minutes to spare! Grab Target bag and bound in the door.
‘Morning’. First thing, coffee and then plant myself on my stool. Twenty-minute lecture flies by and it’s time to get my station ready. Apron, towels, cutting board and knives. Brace myself for the criticism. My onion ciselle is not uniform, but my tomato sauce is seasoned correctly. I think my fish veloute is too salty, but chef says ‘perfect’. Too much pepper in my béchamel, he says. He likes the volume of my sabayon. Yes, a small victory, but I burn my hand on the bowl. My hollandaise is good. Ray, the dishwasher, says it was the best. We eat a quick lunch of pasta shells and tomato sauce. I sprinkle mine generously with freshly shredded Parmesano Reggiano, salty and sandy in my mouth. Clean my messy station, then more lecture and finally chores. I sweep the floor, package chicken stock for freezing and help fill salt and pepper cellars. Quick change into my work clothes of plum pumps, dark wool pants and a short-sleeved aqua sweater. Throw my bag in the trunk, place my food on the passenger seat and make the nine minute or so drive to work.
Take orange bag into office. Bring the gang some food. Hear criticism for my coworker – the lazy bloated guy with the 70’s porno mustache – too much pepper and why isn’t it hot? Refrain from telling him I’m cooking for a refined palate, not someone who thinks Bucco de Beppo is haute cuisine. Meet with my assistant for an update. Chat with my boss about her daughter. Check email. Work until 7 pm.
Change into yoga clothes in the bathroom and drive to T.’s 7:30 class. Pray he’ll let me practice without calling me out. I want to be invisible today. Say “hi” to his wife, who forbids me to hang out with him anymore. It feels good to warm up my shoulders with a flowing Down Dog to Chatturanga. When is he going to stop calling twisting-fence “Phoren pose”? Doesn’t he realize that got old years ago? Yes, I hate the pose, but it’s not funny. Unsuccessfully attempt crow pose – again. Get frustrated when he ends class 15 minutes late. Drive home by 9:45 to see Kafka waiting for me at the window. Say “hi” to him when I walk in the door. Call him puddin’ pies, fluffy face, schpunkenator – anything but Kafka. Let him outside. Take all bags into the house. Can’t relax until I repack bags for tomorrow. Strip off yoga clothes and get in jammies. Take work clothes out of orange bag and replace with yoga stuff. Lay out chef’s stuff for tomorrow on bedroom chair. Wash face, take out contacts, put on green glasses. See Kafka peering in at back door and let him in. Warm up leftover tuna & pasta for dinner. Turn on some music. Eat at dining table while blogging. Get interrupted by Kafka asking to go out. Let him back out. Eat Trader Joe’s 5-seed bar spread with peanut butter for dessert and a cup of Good Earth decaf tea. Wash breakfast and dinner dishes and get oatmeal ready for tomorrow. Fill kitty’s dish with crunchies. Hear Kafka at back door. Let him back in. Brush teeth, let kitty drink from bathroom faucet and then crawl into bed. Read half a page of Fritjof Capra’s book on physics systems theory and fall asleep with the light on and the book on my chest. Dream good dreams.”