For those of you who live in or near New York City, or for those who know the city well - where does a person eat with all of those choices?

I want it all - high end, low end, street fare, pub fare, dives - you name it.

Anyone else craving a caramel apple?

I can't tell you how often I am asked the question, "Why do you do it?" This life - this journey of food service - why?

My answer has become both a mockery and a truth, "Because I can't help myself."

This legacy started before my time - generations before me. The life that became the only life my family knew. So many memories of my childhood were spent hanging out in kitchens or on stools in the storage room eating lunch. And I loved it. I loved the excitement of it. And I can't begin to tell you all that I learned.

But then I got older, and the discussions around the dinner table involved choices for me. And by choices I mean working the dishwasher, or taking care of the stock. Those were my options at a time when most of my friends were either still spending their summer days at the pool or babysitting or something else way more fun than what I was about to embark on. That's the thing with a family owned business - the benefits are great, but when you are young you just don't see it. All you can see is that you don't have a choice. And you are convinced that while you are working all summer long everyone else is having way more fun. And you don't care that the money is good or that you live in a great house and have great things. You would give it all up to be able to lay out in the sun all day.

So I worked, and I learned - with attitude - but I did it. And then I started getting to the age when it was time to graduate from high school and everyone assumed I would go off to school to get a degree in all of this madness so I could come back and start my own thing one day to carry on the family dynasty. And that would make me roll my eyes and rattle off something angry about never - ever - wanting to do this for a living. I hated it, hated everything about it.

And I went off and embarked on a life that had nothing to do with any of it. And it was fabulous. And then something inside of me started drawing me back - so I learned, and put into practice what I already knew, and I landed right where I am today.

And I continue to do it because I just can't help myself.

And. As I have said. The liquor helps.

It's officially Fall. And I don't say that because of the crispness in the air or the changing leaves or the morning fog.

I say that because I got pegged in the eye with a falling acorn.

I was on my way to my car when I heard something behind me. I turned and expected to see someone walking, but saw no one. And then I heard it again, and again nothing. So when I heard something the third time I didn't bother to look and that's when I got pegged. And when it all made sense that what I heard was acorns hitting the ground. I am pretty sure I heard some Keebler Elf laughing hysterically at finally hitting his mark - the little imaginary bastard.

Another sign of fall are the hysterical brides freaking out that their outdoor dream wedding may have to be moved indoors. I can't begin to tell you how many times over the last year we have said, "Outdoor weddings in the Northwest are tricky - there is no guarantee. And when you get into September, Plan B should be a first priority." But it always falls on deaf ears. We have great weather, and 70% of the time a planned outdoor event goes off without issue.

This weekend is no exception - we've got a bride who's angry because she has to be under a tent - that was not "her dream", and she is making everyone miserable. But for gosh sake - it's September. And it's not even Labor Day Weekend - it is September 22 - one day short of the official start of Autumn. But there is no reasoning with her. She's determined to feel sorry for herself.

Now there's someone who could use an acorn to the eye...

(Author's Note: I am slowly getting through my e-mails for the past month - thank you for writing and I promise to get back to you just as soon as I can!)

The Corn is ready.

THE CORN IS READY!

Well, some of it has been ready for a couple of weeks. But the corn I am waiting for - peaches and cream - is starting to show promise of ripeness.

A few days ago The Sister and I engaged in our annual Corn Fest. Although we both agree that perhaps it was a little premature given the coming ripeness that I mentioned above. This moment, then, would simply be a practice round. Sort of like the Olympic Trials, but with less sweating, less cardio, and less muscle. How fantastic would that be? An Olympic Event dedicated to corn? "For The Doubles Competition we have The Food Whore and The Sister competing for the United States."

We would kick ass, for sure. We might struggle a little against the Doubles Team from Iowa, though. Those people are ruthless corn eaters.

We spent our time slathering ear after ear in sweet cream butter, followed by generous sprinkles of black pepper and salt. Some of the corn was so sweet that it didn't need a thing - but why would anyone choose to forgo butter or salt or pepper? That's just crazy talk.

We saved the Early Peaches and Cream variety for last, having just a few ears available. So when it came time we each grabbed an ear and oh my sweet merciful Lord - the kernels just exploded in your mouth. The sweetness hasn't peaked yet. But the texture was absolutely amazing. With barely any effort at all each row of kernels just fell into my mouth. I cannot wait until next week when it has reached it's full potential - and sits simmering on the stove just for me.

There was one cob left and we eyed one another seeing who would reach out first. But something crazy and out of the blue happened. I could not believe the words that came out of my mouth at that moment, but I really had no other choice.

As I reached for the napkins to wipe my chin I looked down at the table and shook my head. "You have it", I said. And as I looked back up into her wide eyes, I had to say the 3 words I never thought I would utter in one of these moments. "I am full."

"This can't be it. It's not - over - is it?", she asked.

"I think it is."

"I... I really am."

Normally she would raise her arms in victory. But this time she reached across and patted my hand. "This is just practice. This round doesn't count. Ok? It's just practice."

This is the second year in a row for my fullness. And I think the writing is on the wall, people. I think I may be losing my edge.

I am up to my eyeballs in breasts.

Which is a line The Husband has been dying to use for years. *snort*

But these are chicken breasts. 275 of them. And in the middle of my dealing with said breasts someone in The Client's social circle called and asked if it would be too late to change to salmon.

Said breasts are for tonight.

Too late? The Partner asked if they were joking - they were not - The Bride was just suddenly craving salmon. But if we couldn't change that was fine... she would deal.

She will deal, all right.

One of my biggest flaws is trying to do too many things at once. It's all part of my ridiculous attempt to prove to the world I can do all things and be all things at all times.

It makes me giggle just to think about my stupidity.

I did a small food gig for a friend, and decided to kill two birds with one stone by stopping at the market on my way to her house to pick up a few things I needed, including the tarts I ordered for her. Part of that order was for me, deciding to serve them at a party I was having the next day.

So it all went pretty well until I tried to carry every single thing I made for her in one trip from the van. Which seemed like a good idea until I (unknowingly) slammed the door on my apron tie and when I attempted to step forward got jerked back. The bread I dropped was fine- still safely nestled in it's paper sleeve. And I managed to catch my balance enough to crouch down to unload my arms. This time I decided that not all things needed to be carried at once - smart girl, right? So I tied my apron, picked the things I could balance with reasonable ease and left the rest for a second trip.

Which would have been a fabulous idea had I not stepped right in the box of tarts.

I need a vacation.

According to Webster...

RSVP
abbr. French
répondez s'il vous plaît (please reply)

Four simple letters - wildly important letters. And yet people treat them as casually as a drunken smoker around a box of TNT.

Big trick. 300 Strong. Exact count, according to the RSVP's, 300. Tables were set accordingly. Plates were counted. Food was prepared.

Final count who actually showed up?

340.

Either some one's Abacus was broken or 40 people were walking by and though, 'Hey! A party! Let's go in!".

When The Wedding Planner came into the kitchen looking for a paper bag to breathe into I knew we had a problem. She actually dropped a few 4-letter words, something not often seen in her perfectly coiffed state. I admit I giggled. She shot me a look and asked if someone in the kitchen had a cigarette. "I am not a smoker. But damnit I need one." And then she laughed. She was fine, but had that same question we all did. Who does this?

In a situation there really isn't time to try and figure out how it happened - you just have to fix it. So tables get set up, linens placed, servers adjusted... and in the kitchen it becomes an intricate orchestration to stretch the always-in-place overage we plan for.

It worked out fine. But I admit that I was tempted to grab the microphone and ask for a show of hands for people who did not RSVP. And then ask those people to come up to the stage so the rest of the guests could pelt them with mashed potatoes.

Moments like this always remind me of our very first Trick. I cannot remember if I already shared this story, though I suspect I have a couple hundred times. But it was at a gorgeous estate in The Highlands. The amount they told us to be prepared for was 140. 200 People showed up. In the middle of the chaos The Partner went missing. I later found her in the fetal position on the back stairs.

Amazing we made it through the night.

Even more amazing we've made it this long.

Again I must refer to the liquor factor...

Last week we put out a voter's box for The Staff to have their say in whether or not we would be open for Labor Day. We've had a crazy in-your-face Summer and everyone is walking around with That Look on their faces. That Look being the look of despair coupled with exhaustion coupled with the face Jack Nicholson makes in The Shining.

We're all just tapped out.

So we took a vote - Open or Closed. I wanted them to decide, not wanting to take a day of income away from someone if they really wanted it. And the results were a unanimous "NO!" In fact, there were quite a few "Oh Hell No" votes cast in the box. Which was just fine by us - we all needed a day.

Little did I know that by giving The Staff a great holiday off that we would be offending so dang many people. I actually had one lady stop me in the street just to tell me what an inconvenience it was for us to be closed because she had to cook on her holiday off. When I tried to be nice and apologize and tell her that we all needed a day off she made that disgusted throaty sound and kind of rolled her eyes. Trying to be really nice I smiled and told her to have a nice day. I walked as fast as I could to my car as to fight the overwhelming urge to punch her in the face right there in the middle of the street. Can you imagine that, really? There we stand - POW - I smack her, and down she goes. I am ashamed to say the idea made me giggle when I got in my car, and I had a good giggle out of it the entire ride home. And I guess I should admit that it wasn't so much a giggle as it was a maniacal, throaty laugh.

I've completely crossed over to the other side, no more just dipping my toe in the Crazy Pool in the CrazY-M-C-A in Crazy Town. I am fully submerged without a life jacket.

But we did have the day off, and it was lovely. It was nice to see how the other side lived by lounging on a deck with ridiculous amount of bbq'd food and fruity beverages.

But that feeling didn't last long as the very next day I found myself freaking out over a group of spiders chasing me (no exaggeration) out of a park lodge as I tried to set up a table full of food for a client. Seing an adult woman clad in an apron screeching as she runs in circles could not have been very encouraging for The Guests - but I simply cannot handle anything from the arachnid family - makes me shudder to think about it.

Complaining patrons in the street I envision punching, but 8-legged hairy creatures smaller than my thumb make me scream like a baby and run for the hills.

All part of the Yin and Yang that is me.

And a good bulk of the reason I like the cocktails...