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Pig Farmer
June 30, 2008

I often daydream about food, staring off into the distance as my mouth waters and my eyes close in the blissful calm that comes over me.

I think about simple things - simple things like freshly torn chunk of rustic bread pulled through a puddle of the best extra virgin olive oil that has been riddled with fresh cracked pepper.

Or a layer of warm, creamy fresh mozzarella topped with a thick slice of heirloom tomato. Atop the tomato sits flakes of the best sea salt while a river of fresh balsamic cascades it's way down to to the tender basil leaves below.

Sometimes it's fresh blueberries bubbling under a crust of an oaty-brown-sugary-buttery crust while the homemade vanilla bean ice cream sits in the freezer just waiting for all that warmth.


And then I am jolted back to reality by the sounds of food runners calling for more salmon, and debating whether or not to tell me that someone spilled their glass of red wine all over the platter of fresh oysters.

Or I walk out to a buffet line after 300 deranged guests plow their way through like pigs attack a trough of slop, and I ask myself why I even bother to create beautiful displays when all anyone cares about is filling their plate higher than the guy in front of him.

I find myself watching people - people you would assume had some class with all the sweet smiles and Prada loafers - people who nearly rip the plate out of a server's hand simply unable to wait the 2 seconds it takes for a plate to be properly placed in front of them.


It's Wedding Season, people.


Bridezilla is alive and well. Drunken conga lines wind through kitchens while unattended children poke at wedding cakes. Newly minted in-laws squabble over cake cutting, and girls who catch the bridal boquet end up puking from all those martinis. Grown men demand the DJ play AC/DC while grandparents cover their ears and shuffle their way to their cars.

There are nights when I feel like a victorious food artisan who has just served the perfect meal to the perfect crowd.

And there are nights like tonight when I sit here in my stained apron with trickles of sweat cascading down my back and I feel like nothing more than A Pig Farmer.

Posted by Foodwhore at June 30, 2008 12:17 AM

FW,

My sympathies. Some people just don't seem to have the gratitude, oourtesy or common sense "genes." Or, someone "up there" is testing your patience level! Lemon drop time.

Posted by: LisaInCT at June 30, 2008 04:34 AM

You've encouraged me, once again, to never venture into catering. I'll make the food but someone else will have to serve it to those sorry ingrates.

Hang in there. June is almost over.

Posted by: AuntJone at June 30, 2008 09:04 AM

Oh, I feel your pain. June is not a pretty month. July and August are almost as bad.
I also love the brides that are two hours late to their own wedding dinner....

Posted by: Linda at June 30, 2008 11:03 AM

I've worked that wedding. Heck, I got married at that wedding. Thank god we hadn't been in texas long enough to learn about "keg stands" (do hand stand on keg with tap in mouth until you fall off).

Posted by: Shelley at June 30, 2008 06:02 PM

Were you at my wedding?

hee hee

Posted by: cj at July 1, 2008 01:26 PM

You feel like a pig farmer and we coordinators feel like sheepherders. Happy wedding season!

Posted by: Mia at July 1, 2008 02:00 PM

Bridezilla is alive and well. Drunken conga lines wind through kitchens while unattended children poke at wedding cakes. Newly minted in-laws squabble over cake cutting, and girls who catch the bridal boquet end up puking from all those martinis. Grown men demand the DJ play AC/DC while grandparents cover their ears and shuffle their way to their cars.

Some absolutely brilliant writing there :)

Posted by: James O'Boston at July 3, 2008 05:43 PM
 
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