Tonight we dine in hell.

Tell her, I'm sorry I don't have any duck apple sausage. I can substitute it for the Italian Robiola. Who is it for? Oh yeah, she'll want that more probably.
Last night we did over a hundred. There was no executive sous chef because he was at a fair or disney world (aka his mother's funeral). Fisher was on the line at grill, Fred and I split duties so that I could expedite and fill in every available hole in the place. I pulled groupers from the walk in, I ran glasses to the bar, I ran myself until I couldn't run anymore. But there was a distinct difference in the way service was ran and for the first time I caught a glimpse of what it would be like to run the show. "So all day I need, 2 cob, 3 specials, a honey soy, and a five cheese. Knock out those salads first and I'll start the creme brulees." Instead of hearing, "For fucks sake can I get a god damn cobb!" cooks and servers alike heard, "Great job, Freddy are you ok? I just need a cobb to sell, big boy. Spot on. Caroline, I pulled your silverware it's on the line all you need is the vinegar water." The tickets rattled off like machine gun fire. I was calling out five tops and four tops at the same time, it felt like we weren't catching the break that we deserved. There were no newports smoked behind the fence, no carrots tossed at the back of dishwashers heads. The boys were focused on feeding the hoards that continuously lined our door, craning their necks for a bar table. What the fuck is going on out there? Where are these people coming from? By the time we heard that it was over and the cleaning up could begin, my body ached and my throat was sore from yelling. Jason and I sat outside on the cooler with our heads against the wall in defeat or victory, at the time I couldn't tell. But the truth was the night went as smoothly as it could, and everyone was happy- back of the house, front of the house, customers, and bar flies. We killed ourselves to do it, but in the end it was worth it.

Woke up this morning, and bought yourself a gun.

Wake up Silvio, Tony's dead. The Sopranos are over and Sunday nights are now left to doing something less productive than watching a tv show that I only recently got addicted to (thank you A&E reruns). The boys are all up in arms and I don't blame them. If I dedicated eight years to watching America's favorite crime family justify it's life, only to be perplexed by it's maybe/maybe not end... yeah, there'd be hell to pay. But it's done and I guess I'll just wait for the movie.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. The countdown to funfetti cupcakes begins. It's strange to know that this is my last week in tallahassee. I'm having brunch with the ladies on Sunday as a little farewell and there's talk of a finnegans bash but we'll just have to see. It'll be here before I know it, and all that could have been will change into what is.

Cold Beers, Hot lights, my sweet romantic teen age nights

That's it, I'm giving my notice. Two weeks and I'm outta here. Dave chuckled and passed me the bottle of syrah as if he knew that I needed it. We were at the bar talking about menu changes and how Walter used to change David's diapers, Brian made some comment about getting his shot gun from under the seat and I questioned the legality of that statement. The story about the fight with the melting pot guys apparently amused Liz to the point of tear masked laughter. But even in the midst of the "incident" I knew that it was going to make a great story- seeing as though I'm 5'2, a girl, and at the time pretty drunk. It was Ian from Finnegan's birthday and the boys and I were out at Gill's celebrating with him and toasting yet another unmemorable night, I was carrying two drinks which in my defense were very full when oops, I spilled one. The stereotypical cries of party foul from my boys, Ian making a comment all of which I dismissed with a smile. That was until the following:

Melting pot DB: I guess that's the kind of service you get at Cypress.
Me: Excuse me?
DB: (Turns his body as a sign of disrespect or shame)
Me: Oh, yeah, the melting pot, must have had a long day of opening bags of cheese.
(Bends down until face is inches from ear, lowers voice to a whisper)
If you're feeling froggy. Then go ahead and jump.

And that's the last time I'm going to tell that story, because frankly I'm a little tired of it. Not of the high fives I get by strangers who know me as "the little girl from cypress that got into that fight with the melting pot", but of the glorification of my legal intoxication. But I know that I'll look back on this entry and smile to myself one day just in knowing that at least for one night, I Kate McCabe was a bad ass.

In the past I have used this forum to ellaborate on all the experiences that I have loved so much. When Chris had his accident I broke that tradition, but even in the grief there was still joy and admiration. I have five minutes before I have to go to work and my only hope is that when I open the door and step into the kitchen I can forget about everything that's happening. My dad is very sick. I have worked so hard on this relationship agianst the advice of a lot of people. In a lot of ways it was my most proud accomplishment, staying in contact all this time despite his obvious unwillingness to be a father. Things changed recently and I felt for the first time that it was paying off. We have been closer than ever before, which isn't very hard to do when you go without speaking for years. But what now. God damnit I am so sad and I can't tell anyone. I don't have anyone left.