Just look at what these hands have made

"Taste this and tell me what you think this is." I took the spoon and closed my eyes. How many components does it have? Two. I let it sit on my tongue for a second and then took another bite. Does it have butter? He looked up, yes one of them is butter. I knew that it was a trick question because he was staring straight through my skull into my brain as I tried to figure it out. Cream? Goat's milk? Chevre? God, I have no idea. At least I got butter. "It's boiled white onion." A smile crept across my face as the reality hit me. I couldn't taste onion in the slightest bit. It was smooth and creamy composed of white froth that stuck to the back of the spoon. But it was onion all the same. That's the thing about food. Take away the extra large portions of garlic mashers with white gravy and the three pound hamburgers that drip grease down your fingers and give people the chance to enjoy food again. Why as a country of family diners do we constantly substitute basic well cooked ingredients for fast unhealthy options. We had a family tonight come into the sandbar and one of the little girls ordered the octopus seviche. She must have been seven or eight and there she was having a glass of water and cooked octopus tenticles dressed in lime, cilantro, and red peppers. I remember growing up and wanting to taste everything, if it was on a menu and I had never heard of it before that was what I ordered. I'm so tired of hearing that so and so doesn't eat that. Or the duck didn't taste like chicken at all. Or why can't we just get a pizza. Food should bring a smile to your face every once in a while. It should suprise and uplift you, remind you of places you've been or people you have been in love with. And for pete's sake, if someone askes you to taste something without telling you what it is, please just put it in your mouth and take a wild guess. It might be onions.

I'll follow you into the dark

Slowly San Antonio is changing into a place that I will grow older in. I'll be 22 next month and it's funny how I judge that age against Micah's experiences. I was 18 when we met and he was 20- now with every new year I see it as a reflection of where we were at that age. I remember how his 21rst birthday was spent, with root beers and campfires, and how at 22 he ran away to Italy to find something he thought he lost only to find it at a Tallahassee soccer game. I've lost a lot recently and one of the hardest things to let go is my friendship with him. I'm torn between always being available to him and saving myself from the inevitable letdown and I'm not sure which is more right as opposed to which is more noble. After the basketball game today Spencer and I were sitting on the bleachers, sweat framing our backs and the victory plastered across my face, the agony of defeat tightening the muscles of his back (I just kiiiding). But he told me in respect to life that the hours will pass whether you want them to or whether you're prepared for them. The hours will go by and you can either sink or swim. San Antonio is providing me a place to grow into the person I want to be on my own. Only after you've lost everything can you pick up the pieces and reasemble them into the picture you want to look at for the next couple of years. I want to buy a bar-b-q grill and an inflateable kiddy pool, maybe I can stretch Summer into September and October and make up some of those Sundays I missed. I won't be in Tallahassee next month because I wasn't invited to the wedding. Not that I'm suprised I was given up on a long time ago. But for now I'll look forward to this life I have created with my half full kiddy pool. France in January with team sommelier, Monday basketball games, being president of the under 20 club and the only member of the under 26ers, Matt Pond PA, Rilo Kiley, Lyle Lovett all in October, Sunday afternoon cowboy game viewings, working everyday at a job that challenges and interests me, Autumn and Winter, it's all right around the corner and I'm going to keep my head above water.

The preamble to the fall.

I am cutting fruit into perfectly uniform lines, each time measuring out the millimeters between with my eyes. The kitchen is quiet as usual no jokes, no lighting people's pants on fire, just straight faced men shuffling about with an intensity that I have never known. Brioches in the oven and foie gras torchon hanging in the lowboys, everywhere there is food and cook ing but no eating. I am starving and the day is 5/12 over. There is a red spiral staircase that connects the kitchen to the prep and dish area and every time I go down it I imagine tripping and falling down to the tile below maybe with a knife stuck in my throat. I finish the fruit and begin to arrange it on the platter. It's a small task but this is the first time Chef is trusting me to do it on my own. There are two ways that this can end. He can either shake is head and look at his shoes, all while letting out a sigh "sheeesshhh, Kate no no let me see it." or he can nod in approval and the tray goes out as it is with my hands as the creator. I lay down lemons and limes, the grapefruit goes into a spiral pattern in the middle and the oranges create a wall between the citrus and height. It's just a fruit tray. But this is a different kind of kitchen. I remember the first time I ruined something. It was x-amount of minutes before service when Brian decided that my potatoes were undercooked. One only had to take a bite and find the large lumps of starch beneath the layers of decent taste. Pot on the stove, old mash in the garbage, new spuds in the water, lid on, and tears. I sat outside crying with my head at my knees crying over my mini-disaster. He came out and in a very Brian way addressed me as "Bud" and went on to give me advice that I carried with me through David's condescension and burned croutons, "It's just cookin'" And until this point that notion had served me so well through it all. But now as I finished the tray and held it up for inspection those words retreated to Tallahassee where they came from. Here perfection is paramount. Chef looked at it and nodded, I let my breath go and relaxed if only for a second. Next time it would be a "sheeesh, Kate. No no. Let me see it."