I have a Saturday night off.

A.

SATURDAY.

NIGHT.

OFF.

And what am I doing? Relaxing? Having a pedicure? Getting a massage? Watching Joan Rivers - who's looking more and more like a halibut these days - peddle jewelry on QVC?

No.

I am having 15 people over to my house for cocktails and appetizers. It's something I agreed to a couple of months ago when it all sounded really great.

But the first phone call I awoke to was, "Hi, this is Velma. I just wanted to make sure you're not going overboard on the appetizers. You always go overboard. I mean, I do appreciate it. But you way overdo. So, just throw some chips in a bowl and call it good. Mmmkay?"

Have I mentioned I don't care for Velma so much?

Yeah, I know what you're all thinking - "That crabass doesn't like anyone." Not true. Not true.

I like plenty of people.

But Velma has a long history of hating me due to reasons too stupid to share here.

The fact that I even agreed to do this is a testament to the kind of woman I am - I knew then that Velma would be coming to my house.

So, anyway. She called me at 7:00 to tell me not to go overboard - blah blah blah.

I've been cooking all day.

I've gone beyond overboard to the point that I am straddling the anchor.

So I was in the grocery store yesterday, and it hit me that we're only one month shy of Thanksgiving or as you know I like to call it - The Most Adored Food Holiday In All The Land.

I cannot believe how fast the time has gone over the last year. I could swear I just made food for a 4th of July celebration, and there I was staring at a pile of sweet potatoes just dying to be sauteed in butter and brown sugar. I don't care so much for the marshmallow topping The Husband is so fond of. I like things simple - and buttery.

Anyway so you can feel it in the air, actually - this pre-holiday buzz. The supply of Halloween candy is pretty close to wiped out, and Christmas cards are starting to pop up in displays around the store. Which - Why do they do that to us? Why must we see The Christ Child next to wax vampire fangs? I found myself turning a box of cards around so the Virgin Mary wouldn't have to witness me buying skeleton candy.

And for the first time this year, I noticed people in the store had a different vibe. It's like their shopping has turned from day-to-day dull drums to the intensity that only the holidays can bring.

Some people, however, get a little bit too intense.

I was standing in the checkout line reading a Globe or Star or something like that with a cover story of the aliens who impregnated Katie Holmes, when the lady in front of me started harassing the checker about Turkey Dollars.

This particular store has a promotion where you get so many credits for each dollar spent and you can earn yourself a free turkey. The promotion hasn't started yet, and won't until November 1st. But for the lady in front of me, it was pretty clear waiting 4 more days to start racking up the credits would certainly ruin her day.

Wacko: When does the turkey promotion start?

Checker: On November 1st.

Wacko: The First?? Why are you waiting so long?

Checker: Well, ma'am. The first is Tuesday.

Wacko: I can't believe you haven't started it now!

Checker: I am sorry, ma'am. I don't have any control over that.

Wacko: Well I want my free turkey as soon as possible. Do you have
any idea how long it takes to thaw a frozen turkey.

Checker: Well, I mean. Thanksgiving is 4 weeks away.

The Checker shot a look back at me and I rolled my eyes and went back to reading the story of Charlize Theron being a secret boyfriend abuser.

Wacko: Well I cannot believe the store is waiting so long. This is a major inconvenience for me. I am already stressed about getting that turkey thawed.

Checker: Well, ma'am. I can give you our store manager's name. But I don't know what else to do for you.

Wacko: Well you can make sure I have enough time to thaw that turkey, that's what you can do.

Checker: Well, I don't mean to be disprespectful, but isn't it something like 5 hours of thawing time per frozen pound of turkey?

Wacko: Well you've clearly never cooked a turkey. It takes at least two weeks to thaw turkey properly. Sometimes longer!

That's when I couldn't help myself, I peeked over my magazine at the very same moment Wacko was looking back at me.

Wacko: Am I right? It takes a really long time.

Ah, crap.

Me: Well, um. No. I mean. It doesn't happen in a few hours. But she's right. They say the rule of thumb is 5 hours of refrigerated thawing time for every pound of frozen meat. So even the biggest turkey takes about five days. Six days at the most. You can actually do it quicker in a cold water bath, but it involves changing the water often and...

Six days? Ha ha ha! Clearly you've never cooked a turkey. That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. What would you know about it?

I stood there for a moment chuckling to myself.

"Well, I do know that I don't like to reduce the people I serve to fits of projectile vomiting and diarrhea. But that's just me. You might want to give the Health Department a call or do a little research on-line about proper thawing. You might be surprised what you find out."

And I smiled and went back to reading.

She scoffed and turned back to the checker, who was biting her lip in an attempt to keep the laughter at bay.

Ah how I do love the Holidays.

Ohhhh the hate mail I have recieved.

Honesty, it seems is a bitch.

And apparently so am I, according to 34 people across the globe. Which, when you think of the actual global population, that's really pretty good.

Try to remember - I speak tonge-in-cheek. While I do speak the truth, I also speak it with humor.

Anyone who works with or for the public has their own dynamic, their own way of dealing with things. The Flower Shop friend would gladly throttle 6 out of every 10 people who walk through her door. So many people are rude, they are demanding, and they expect everything for nothing.

The Densist Friend has stories upon stories.

The School principal friend has enough material for 5 blogs.

The Physical Therapist Friend calls me once a week just to vent.

So it's not just "Crass head-to-big for a normal hat bitches" (a direct quote from e-mail #8 today) like me who have thes opinions - there's more like me on every corner.

I don't speak for all, however. Just for me and those who work with me. So for the Lady in Topeka, please don't take it out on your local steakhouse.

If it makes any of you feel better, the swearing from the walk-in cooler I described was me. I dropped a gallon of buttermilk.

It's 10 minutes to closing time.

You've endured another dinner rush that left your adrenaline racing and your blood pressure reaching levels not fit for a healthy human. But it went well. It was exciting. And best of all, it's over.

So you start the familiar clean-up process by stocking the prep line, scrubbing down the steam line, loading up the quick access cooler... and then it happens. You hear the in-kitchen door alarm alerting you to the fact that someone has just opened the front door. Everyone in the kitchen freezes and looks at the clock. And they all pray that buzzing sound was the buzz of someone going out instead of coming in.

So you peak through the door, and you see a 4-top being seated by the window.

And you swear.

And the dishwasher swears.

And the busser comes in and swears.

And the Hostess comes in and apologizes.

And you hear more muffled swearing coming from the walk-in cooler.

And then you wait. What will they order? Are they just here for a quick nightcap? Will they order something for take-out?

They order steaks - all of them. And you throw a towel on the prep bench in disgust. But more than anything you want to throw a raw steak on their table with a clock embedded in the flesh.

But you cook it to perfection, and fling the food up in record time in hopes they won't have time to finish their salads, and get the message to hurry up the dining process.

And then you sit and wait while they have an endless conversation about life.

And then they have the audacity to order dessert.

And the waitress comes in the kitchen and swears.

Which sets off another chain reaction of the words people go to confession for.

More swearing comes from the walk-in cooler, but you're not sure if it's over the dessert or the loud crash you heard just seconds before.

And then you all wait - and watch the clock - and watch the 4-top as they ever so slowly pick at the chocolate torte and sip coffee.

The dishwasher paces. The busser paces. The lights on the far end of the restaurant are turned off.

The night custodian has arrived.

And still they sit.

And pick.

And sip.

And finally over an hour and 30 minutes later, they leave. And a shout of joy rings through the place. The lights go off. The door is locked. And 15 minutes of bitching ensues about the stupidity of customers and their inability to tell time.

So if you're ever in the position to enter a food establishment near closing time, think long and hard. I know - things happen. Plays run long. Games go into overtime. And you are likely a very nice person who's just hungry for a good steak. And yes, technically there's 10 whole minutes until closing time.

However.

Your best option at that point is the stale saltines you have sitting in your pantry. Because even though the hostess will smile and say, "Oh yes we're still open, come on in." And then the waitress will smile and say, "Oh that's no problem! What can I get you this evening?", and the busser will smile as he pours your water...

The reality is, everyone hates you.

When Laughing Lilly called me back in May to book her December function, she stressed to me that it would be small, intimate, and unique. Less than 100 people. Quaint venue. String quartet.

It was the only reason I agreed to take her on. We were basically booked for the weekend, but we could do small and intimate.

We spoke briefly on the phone about menu ideas, keeping our options open for new and unique items we may come across over the summer.

Over the last few months I have received three notes from her containing pictures and ideas of things she would like to see, each note was ended with, "Remember - small and intimate!"

So since Laughing Lilly was pretty clear about her function being small an intimate, I wasn't worried about the already-booked company party for 120 people. We don't generally like to double book. It's not that we can't do it, but we like to focus on one function at a time. And this one is a casual corporate buffet right after work, and the menu is pretty straight forward. We like the corporate stuff. People get drunk and seem to want to spill their guts about all their dirty cubicle secrets. Things like their affection for Phil in accounting, or how much they hate that bitch in reception. It's really quite entertaining.

And informative.

In fact, after the last corporate function, The client suggested that I keep a journal of all the crazy antics I witness.

Yeah. I will, um, look into that...

Anyway.

So imagine my surprise when Laughing Lilly informed me last week that plans had changed a bit.

She was actually giddy with excitement.

"Well, this thing has taken on a life of it's own! It's just so crazy!"

"What do you mean, exactly?", I said while tapping my pen on the table.

"Well, hee hee heee, it's no longer the small and intimate affair I've been raving about for the last 6 months."

"We're thinking it will be close to 450 people. And before you say anything, here me out... picture winter wonderland. Picture White Christmas. Picture 3 carving stations. Picture ice sculptures. Picture..."

Picture me holding up my hand to get the waiter's attention and ordering a lemon drop.

Picture me drinking the lemon drop and nodding my head as if I am really listening.

Picture me rubbing my temples.

Picture me filling out an application for McDonald's. Because frankly, that's where I am ready to get a job. Forget this madness. I will schlep french fries out a drive-up, and maybe I can start a grass-roots campaign and get them to start deep frying their apple pies again.

Sweet Sadie wanted to meet me at the Tea Shop down the street from the place she practices yoga 2 days a week.

When I met her she was still aglow with the sweat of all that stretching. And she was in the middle of what sounded like juicy gossip on her cel phone.

She's planning a birthday party for a friend - girls only - and she's wanting it to be over the top.

So we discussed food options and drink options and all points in between, when Sweet Sadie leaned in close.

"Will you be able to get a cute young man to serve cocktails?"

"Honey - we may be crazy old broads, but we're not dead." And she lifted her eyebrow and tilted her head in a way I would imagine got her whatever she wanted in life.

The birthday party is for Sweet Sadie's friend Etta - the baby of the group.

This will be Etta's 85th birthday.

*Sigh*

This is for the person who has e-mailed me 3 times this week outraged that I would threaten someone at the grocery store. I got the message on the first e-mail, just so you know. The other two typed in ALL CAPS WITH LOTS OF EXCLAMATION POINTS WAS NOT NECESSARY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I want you to be able to sleep better.

And I want you to stop e-mailing me.

So, I just want to be clear - I haven't and don't plan to go around the grocery store hitting random people with canned hams.

Unless they purposely ram their carts into my ankles. Then - THEN - yes.

I would totally do it.

Maybe twice.

And then I might toss an overripe pineapple at them for good measure.

'Cause, you know. Pineapple is good with ham.

A little while ago, The Husband and I watched - and were completely enthralled with - a Discovery Channel show about how shopping carts are made.

(We're total party animals, in case that's not obvious)

I am fascinated by those types of shows - I like to get inside things - see what makes them function. I like to know how everything is made, and I like to know how it's all put together to make run run. I am that way with everything, really. People, too. Although I am finding that what makes most people run is a great big giant void where their brains should be.

Anyway.

It's pretty cool - how the grocery carts are made. It's all steel stretching and bending and spot welding and wire cutting and all that very boring to some, but exciting to me, stuff.

So next time you're in the grocery store, think about all that goes in to making the shopping cart. Think about bent wire and molds and quality control ensuring the 12 cases of Michelob Light you desperately hurl into the basket of that cart doesn't snap a wheel.

And if you're that lady with red hair fashioned like Marge Simpson after jogging in a wind storm, I want you to really think hard before you're impatience forces you to take that carefully-crafted shopping cart and slamming it not once - not twice - but three times into the heel of the wild-haired lady wearing a chef coat and apron standing in front of you.

Because if you ever again are so foolish as to break the skin on that lady's ankle and cause it to bleed, that wild-haired lady wearing a chef coat and apron will be forced to take that canned ham you have cradled in your shopping cart and slam you upside the head with it.

The Customer was fabulous.

He never quibbled on the price. He trusted our instincts. He allowed us to be as creative as we dare.

The Venue was perfect. We've never worked in a better kitchen. We've never had better access to the kitchen. The Carts for loading and unloading were fabulous. The Dishwasher was brand knew. And wonderful.

The Guests could not have been more charming and complimentary.

There was all all around incredible vibe in the room.

Our deliveries all came on time. We weren't pacing for our linens to arrive. The food was perfect. Not a rotten head of lettuce in the bunch.

Our staff out did themselves.

As The Partner and I sat in the van sighing that, "Thank God we're done with another one" sigh. We were silent.

I sat staring out the window, brows furrowed in a state of slight confusion. The Partner was looking out the passenger window.

"What the Hell just happened?", she asked.

"It's the craziest damn thing, isn't it?", I said while still staring out the window.

"I hate the use the word 'perfect'", she said. "But that was perfect. From start to finish perfect. Not one single flaw."

"I know. It's almost... "

"Don't pick on me, now. It will ruin the perfect."

I began to drive away and there was a loud crashing sound. I had forgotten to shut the back door of the van and a few pots dropped out, and a glass vase went crashing to the pavement.

It was good while it lasted.

My friend Veg will never forgive me for posting this.

But every once and a while I stumble across a site that leaves me a little perplexed.

And even somewhat fascinated.

And I have to say, the idea of a brisket yarmulke has me laughing hysterically.

But also really grossed out.

Picky Penny - a potential client - asked me to meet with her over lunch at a new lunch cafe' by the water. I've heard good things about the place, but haven't had the chance to get there, so this was a good excuse.

We sat down, had a nice little chat and let the waiter know we were ready to order.

I ordered the steak salad and an iced tea with lemon.

"Oh you're brave", Picky Penny said. "I don't like all the stuff on that salad. What do you do when there's things in a dish you don't like?"

"Well", I said. "It's rare that I don't like an ingredient. And if I don't, I either don't order the dish or I discreetly pick it off when the food arrives."

Picky Penny proceeded to order the chipotle chicken wrap with no onions, no peppers, light on the shredded spinach, cheddar instead of pepper jack, and the chipolte dressing on the side. And there was not, under any circumstances, to be any scallions inside the wrap. And she didn't want the fries, soup or salad offered - she wanted fresh fruit, instead. But only if the fruit was fresh. Otherwise she wanted extra chicken, with no side dish.

I've always said that I would love if everyone were allowed 5 minutes of free time in the universe. In that 5 minutes you could do whatever or say whatever to whomever you wanted. After the 5 minutes was up, all the space and time continuum would go back to normal and no one would have any memory of the last 5 minutes.

I would have loved that, today.

Because given that 5 Minutes of Free Time, I would have lunged across the table, grabbed Picky Penny by the nape of her neck and shoved her face down in bowl of oatmeal.

Why oatmeal, you ask?

Well I am not a total violence-approving freak. Oatmeal is very good for the skin. And if you're going to invoke punishment on someone, the least you can do is make it beneficial to them in some way.

Oatmeal is also very sticky. And is very hard to get out of your hair.

How I know this is really not important at this time.

The Waiter was so gracious as to keep a straight face. But I know he was thinking, "The cook is so going to kick my ass when I bring this order to the kitchen." When Picky Penny was done ordering she looked down into her purse and I caught The Waiter's eye. I rolled my eyes, he rolled his eyes, and I gave him the encouraging smile that said, "I will leave you the biggest tip of your day. And I totally do not know this woman."

When Picky Penny looked back up she said, "Now. Let's talk menu. And lets talk dates, shall we?"

I was pretty sure at that moment that I would be booked that day.

Whatever day that may be.

How many times do you think it will take me to learn that Paper Grocery Bags + Rainy Weather = Groceries On The Ground?

HOW MANY?

I normally don't put a warning on my posts, but you might not want to read this one during snack time.

Or even at all.

I can't believe I am about to type this.

A couple of days ago, my good friend Veg sent me a link to this article.

She said something about me being grateful that this wasn't my restaurant.

And I was.

However.

I try to keep bathroom stuff off this forum. If for no other reason than talking about this stuff makes me gag harder than the raw chicken. I have issues with bathrooms. I've always said that I would rather wash 400 moldy, caked on dishes by hand - in the dark - than to have to clean a bathroom.

And that includes my own.

And I have serious issues with public restrooms, no matter how fabulous they are. Although I was recently in a bathroom - correction "ladies lounge" - that had a massage chair, hot moist towels, and a full supply of hair products and make-up.

I liked that one, a lot.

But public bathrooms, as a whole, freak me out. I am actually more inclined to want to do my "business" in snake-infested waters than use a public toilet.

It's just one of my many issues.

Anyway.

When you have a place of business, and that place of business has a bathroom, you're just bound to have issues. Even the most grand of bathrooms has clogged toilets and such. And all that stuff is tolerable. It's just part of the deal.

What is not tolerable, however, is the people who use said bathrooms. People, as I have said time and time again, are pigs.

Major freaking pigs.

Tonight during the dinner rush the hostess came to the kitchen to get my attention.

"There's a problem in the men's bathroom", she said.

"Oh, great. What's the problem?"

"Put an out of order sign on the door, and I will take care of it."

It's moments like these when I know I should take the leadership role and just get the job done. But the reality is, I am a week little puppy who caves at the first thought of having to deal with such a thing.

Instead I looked over at the dishwasher and bit my lip a little.

"I've got it. That stuff doesn't bother me."

He's totally getting a raise.

He grabbed some gloves and the key to the supply closet and was on his way to eradicate the problem.

And what was the problem, you ask?

Ok. Well.

Someone had wiped Body Excrement - ok, shit - all over the men's toilet seat. I don't know if it was an accident, or if it was done on purpose.

I just know that it's one of those things that can make a person want to jump off a building into a hot vat of pork fat.

And the thing is, I wish I could say it was the first time something like this has happened.

It isn't.

And I hate to even talk about it, here.

But it just isn't.

I shit you not.

The Engaged Couple came in for a consultation.

It was, in their words, a "Fact finding mission".

Male Fiance' (MF) said, "We don't even know where to begin."

The Female Fiance' (FF) interrupted with, "What he means is we know what we like, but we don't know how to put it all together."

He looked at her and smiled. "She's right. That's exactly what I meant."

So I started asking some questions about likes and dislikes to get a feel for the direction they wanted to go.

MF - "Well I like a meaty meal. I would definitely like some beef of some kind because..."

FF - "Beef is so heavy. We don't want beef." Then she looked to him and said, "You really don't even like beef all that much? Where is this coming from?"

MF - "I love beef. You know that. My favorite meal is a thick and juicy steak."

FF - "Since when? You never order a steak when we go out for dinner!"

MF looked to me and said, "I do love beef. What our the options for that?"

I started to speak when FF interrupted and said, "You never answered the question. Since when do you like beef?"

MF sighed and said, "I don't always order steak when we go out because I can always have that at home. And I do. I lost count of how many times I cooked steaks on the BBQ this summer."

FF - "Oh whatever."

I rubbed my temples a little bit, and hoped that perhaps a meteor would strike the building and prevent me from having to run screaming out the door.

FF - "Beef is fine. Whatever. But I want to take into account a good vegetarian option."

MF - "Oh no way. You've got one vegetarian friend and we always have to make concessions for her. She can just pick whatever else is on the table."

FF - "She's not the only vegetarian out there."

MF - "Well I am not bending over backwards for those people. It's ridiculous."

"Actually", I said. "If I may interrupt. Having a good vegetarian option is really a great thing to have. A very good friend of mine is a vegetarian, and I know she appreciates where there are alternatives on the menu for her and her children."

FF - "See."

MF - "What a pain in the ass."

FF - "Why do you do that? Why do you have to be so crass?"

MF - "I am not crass. But I think it's fucking ridiculous to cater to 1% of our guests."

"Why don't we refocus here, and get some other ideas...", I started to say.

FF - "That's nice. Swear. What a nice thing to do in front of a stranger."

MF - "Look. First you tell me I don't like meat, now you tell me I can't swear? What's next, will I need permission to use the bathroom?"

I closed my eyes and sighed. Then I closed my notebook, and put my pen down.

FF - "Is there a problem? Are we done, here?"

"Well", I said. "Here's the deal. I think I know exactly what it is you need."

MF - "What?"

FF - "Oh?"

"Food is my specialty", I said. "But I am pretty safe in saying a caterer is not what you need."

MF and FF in unison, "What?"

FF - "What do we need?"

"A marriage counselor.

Have a nice day."

And with that I walked away.

Yeah, it would have been good blog fodder.

But there's not enough Lemon Drops in the world to numb the train wreck coming down the pike for these two.

Just a little break in food stories to share some fabulous news.

Welcome, Karenna

The rush of service was over, and we were all in the kitchen taking a breather when the Mother of the Bride (MOB) came in.

"The food is fabulous. People are raving."

I smiled and said, "Thank you!"

"Now. Which one of you ran into my Cousin Betty in the grocery store and told her we weren't having salmon?"

The Partner shot a look at me. And The Staff pretended they were busy folding napkins.

"It was me", I said a bit sheepishly.

"And, may I ask why you did that?"

"Wait. Don't say another word."

And she threw her head back and laughed so hard she ended up doubled over and holding her stomach.

I let out a sigh and said, "So you're not mad, then?"

"Your tip is going to be huge!"

And with that she laughed her way out of the kitchen.

The Partner looked at me and said, "You're lucky. One of these days that smart-ass mouth of yours is going to get us all in a heap of trouble."

"I rest my case."