Much Ado About Dough

I’ll admit it, I”m still stuck on breads and other doughs. Much to my surprise, my sourdough mother culture is still alive after several weeks. I’ve become a bit more lax about feeding her, and can go about a day and a half between feeding with out any ill effects. Anyone who has read Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential likely remembers his friend “Adam Last-Name-Unknown”, the chronic absentee baker who makes remarkable breads but can’t seem to keep himself together otherwise. Arguably the best story in the book, Adam calls in begging Anthony to “feed the bitch” (which is the name given to his monstrous yeasted dough starter). Read about Adam’s “Feed the bitch” saga. Having shared this story with Alexir, and given the longevity my starter has shown, he has taken to referring to her as the “queen bitch”.

From this mother, I have broken off “children” cultures. They seem to survive while in my care, but the one I gave away didn’t fare so well. I know it can be a pain to feed her so often.

I also have expanded from a simple loaf of San Francisco style sourdough, to a plethora of other culinary delights. I must admit that many of them were prepared at home, and then proofed in my kitchen at Frank’s. You can’t beat the heat and moisture levels of a commercial kitchen versus home; and finding 6 uninterrupted hours to work through some of these recipes is near impossible unless I woke up and had my coffee well before 9am. The results of this situation mean very few opportunities to take photographs, and almost never having leftovers. My favorites include cinnamon rolls, that turned out pillowy and with ever so slight a hint of tang. I used a garam masala blend for the filling and made a ginger-cinnamon icing. I may just have to post the recipe for those in the future.

Here are some of the things I WAS able to photograph:

Banneton!

 

Alexir surprised me when I picked him up from work a few weeks ago with a pair of bannetons. I could not ask for someone more loving and supportive of all my endeavors, culinary or otherwise. This basket is used in place of an oiled boil or pan to give loaves a particular shape. While I’m still slowly growing accustomed to the process of using them (seeing as I’ve had no formal training in the matter), they are fun. Here’s my first decent looking pair of loaves made with them to accompany some chowder for family meal last week:

Sourdough wheat loaves, shaped in the bannetons

 

The crumb in these is very fine, mostly due to the addition of whole wheat flour. I’ve been constantly amazed how little changes can make a simple sourdough base into so many differently flavored breads and pastries. The wheat toned down the sour almost to the point of it disappearing.

 

Sourdough coffee cake with cinnamon oat streusel

Sourdough coffee cake. I know, right?! Is there anything this stuff CANNOT do?? This was the first recipe where I took some liberties and made modifications based on my basic pastry knowledge. The folks at work approved this one, and it requires NO proofing. Definitely a candidate for future replication.

Sourdough pizza

 

So much yes. This recipe relies solely on the starter for the depth of flavor, and gives you a massive amount of play with how long to allow it to proof (in the fridge overnight, or not at all), and you can par-bake crusts for reuse later. I like the prospect of minimal prep work before enjoying the fruits of your labor. Minus the chicken, this baby was a vegetarian dream. Rosemary/garlic olive oil base, mixed leafy greens and asparagus, feta, mozz, and aged balsamin. Yum! The crust gets prebaked to hold up to toppings, but bubbles up some so you’re not just crunching a giant cracker.

I fed the bitch yesterday, and will be feeding her double this afternoon so I can share a jar with a coworker tomorrow or later this week. Seeing that little ecosystem burping all those little carbon dioxide bubbles never gets old. I know, I’m weird. The food nerds get it tough.

Can’t wait to try some other tricks and techniques. More to come soon.

Weighing In: Comparing Apples to Oranges

I am blessed to have many facebook friends with what I would consider to be “well-rounded” opinions. They make posts or share photos of positive quotes and uplifting stories. One of the most popular things going around are photos of Marilyn Monroe and making quotes about “This is a REAL woman”. Here’s an example:

 

Now, I appreciate this sentiment. Marilyn Monroe is in many ways one of my heroines. But the severity of these “healthy woman” memes started trying to throw perspective completely in the opposite direction. Instead of inspiring the right people, it started offending all the women who are naturally thin.

At this point, I know you’re asking “Ashley, this IS a food blog, right? Where is this going?” I’m glad you asked. Enter THIS picture:

 

 Welcome to another one of my million “food to life” allegories. The point of all of this is that, like a bowl full of fruit, we as women are equally diverse. Our height and weight vary as much as the color of our skin or our personalities.

So on that same note, should someone feel bad if they are more interested in eating a banana or a strawberry than a pear? Of course not. So men, I ask you, why would you let anyone make you feel guilty for loving a curvy woman, a thin woman, or an in-between woman? I can’t count the number of times I’ve seen men hide their women, or say they “don’t want something serious” because they’re dating a curvy woman. I’ve also seen women hide from friends and those of their significant other due to weight gain.

Ladies, you are each juicy, delicious, complex, and fantastic in your own way. Maybe you’re rail thin, maybe you’re thick and curvy, maybe you have an average waist and a kind of big butt (ahem, that would be me). The right person can and should have the ability to tell the world that they find you beautiful, and to hell with anyone else’s opinion.

So don’t hate on the carrots because you’re a pear. Don’t tell the apples that they “should take care of themselves and go on a diet”. Whatever changes you may make, the first step is to love and accept yourself exactly the way you are. That perfect person will love you NOW, not 20 pounds less or 10 pounds more. Accept yourself, find your happy average, know changes will occur, and don’t be afraid to tell yourself “I am a sexy, sexy starfruit!”

EVERYTHING: That is Your Job Description

This new article randomly appeared as a sidebar as on my facebook feed last week:

http://consumerist.com/2013/05/02/restaurant-has-44-requirements-for-wannabe-line-cooks-and-making-fun-of-the-list-isnt-one/

Intrigued by the specificity of the title and it’s relation to the kitchen I decided to take a look. In a nutshell, the article reviews a recently discovered craigslist ad for a line cook. The job description went on to outline 44 extremely specific requirements. Some were mundane, such as “you take your breaks when it’s slow”. Some were so specific there was no margin for question, including “You always know exactly what’s on your grill, stove, or oven, even if it isn’t yours”.

In true passive aggressive style known to the era of “teh internetz”, people shared, reposted, and complained to the restaurant owners about the ad. It was eventually taken down, and the management assured all those concerned that the list was a joke copied and pasted from a different site. It was not meant to be taken literally, nor was the sous chef who posted the ad given permission from management to do so.

What struck me as ironic at the end of this article was how true the list was, with a few notable exceptions. Furthermore, it shocked me how in the dark most people truly are about a cook or chef’s true job description. Sure, your first quarter chef instructors in culinary school will show you how to large dice an onion. Your fine dining instructor will give you a foundation on how to adjust plate presentation to create maximum diner/guest appreciation. But only experience will bring you the nuances too complicated to verbalize. Damn right you are expected to show up to your kitchen sick or hungover without any question. And only after demonstrating your complete uselessness will you be sent home. You work to take care of yourself so you’re not catching every cold or flu that the servers bring through the kitchen like a plague.

As my chef put it, a cook’s job description is far too long to ever offer up prior to being hired. And once you’ve been in a few restaurant kitchens, you learn to watch and avoid the mistakes of others. Yes, you will take your verbal punishment from the chef or owner for anything that comes off your station, even if you didn’t personally make it. Someone coming over to shuck oysters for me during a rush and leave a few chips of shell in one? That reflects on me.

If our saute cook leaves a plate of mac and cheese finishing in the salamander for too long and lets the breadcrumbs start to burn, heads along the line pop up like a colony of prairie dogs. Cooks or my chef start exclaiming “It smells like burning!” or just “burning!”. You are expected to be THAT in tune with everything.

You learn to silently watch what everyone does. That is an unspoken key to success. See what earns praise, see what gets your ass chewed out. Anticipate what your chef or other people need. Washing and drying lettuce? Slicing chives? Toasting nuts? Ask or know if anyone else can benefit from your prep to prevent two people from having to do the same job.

I’ve worked when I’m hungover, sick, depressed, or having a hormone rage day. I try to do well, but I know to anticipate that I will be correctly and put in my place about every little thing possible. My job is not only to learn my station, but to expand and learn what happens on grill and saute, in case someone is in the weeds (has too much to do at once) and help them without being asked. I know that if someone compliments my food, that the compliment really belongs to my chef. She designed the recipes, and the prep cook does most of the pastry or other involved prep. I mostly put things on a plate in a pretty manor.

These and many more tidbits come up in the umbrella category of “expectations for a cook”. Move on to a chef position, and watch a job description that could take up an 8 page notebook jump to the size of an encyclopedia. The higher you move, especially in the back of the kitchen, the more exponentially things become a part of your responsibility. Take my chef, Kym, for example. Seafood order comes in wrong, the prep cook has to call Kym. Brunch didn’t get their bread delivery correct, Kym has to make some calls. Line cook is sick: Kym plays saute cook for the night AND has to keep an eye on the servers to make sure food is going out correctly. Reach-in fridge cooling improperly: call Kym. Toilet overflowing: Kym with a plunger. Management in a restaurant essentially means that anything from any cook position you are overseeing is something you can take over with a moment’s notice. Plus all the unexpected things. What’s Kym’s job description? Everything, broken into little pieces and scattered amongst her recipe testing, prep, and expediting. Popping up at the least convenient moments. I am constantly in awe of her ability to juggle so much.

So while the sous chef from the article is being punished for posting what appears to be a “ridiculous list of line cook requirements”, the fact of the matter is that he was being honest. And that list only accounts for the tip of iceberg.

Dinner with Petros

I’ve lived in my current apartment for about 11 months. During that time, I’ve had a chance to at least briefly interact with my neighbors on all four sides. The people across the hall seem relatively disinterested in socializing at all. The upstairs neighbors kind of scoff at Alexir and I (which is strange, because we both have dogs and seem to keep similar sleep and waking schedules). The woman to our right is a kindly older gal I don’t really ever see. I helped her son and daughter-in-law carry a couch into her apartment around Christmas time and asked her to come by if she ever needed anything.

And then there’s the apartment that appears from the outside to house someone…very unusual. The upper part of the back porch has a bunch of handmade shelves of various heights. From the railing to almost the ceiling, the porch is surrounded by chicken wire. Several hummingbird feeders hang from hooks. There are two planters hanging precariously from chains above the main body of the porch.

This is the home of Petros. The one neighbor who has taken to creating a sense of community in the W building. I’ve heard him go out of his way to learn about and speak to all the neighbors. My first week after moving in, he introduced himself and explained that the chicken wire was for his two cats so they could relax in various spots on the back porch without risking falling (since he lives on the second story).

When Alexir was between jobs last winter, Petros found out about the situation and gave him several random bags of frozen food without asking for anything in return.

I am of a mindset that community in the past was built largely around mealtime and food in general. Societies built upon hunting and gathering forced tribes to work cooperatively for the benefit of feeding the whole. This sort of behavior also gave opportunity for talking, singing, and otherwise bonding with those who lived close by. Our food culture is vastly different from that time, as many people convince themselves that they are too busy to cook a meal for family or friends. Many are stuffing granola bars or Big Macs in their mouths without even leaving their desks.

It has been a goal of mine since culinary school, and also since moving on my own last year, to embark on a larger journey to feed and share with the masses. Granted, I have not the time or resources to feed the world. But when I can, I hope to make a difference.

Enter two Sundays ago, when Alexir and I were returning from the grocery store. We saw Petros on his back porch with his cats and said “hi”. We chatted for a while about several different things, and it came up that both Alexir and I were cooks. He went on to ask about whether or not we liked copper river salmon. We of course said yes, we’re generally pretty happen to eat seafood of any kind. One thing led to another, and as soon as we mentioned that we had the next day off we were invited to dinner at his place.

At 5ish, we walked up the stairs, armed with a small dish of freshly backed chocolate chip cookies, and I met Petros in person for the first time. He’s an older Greek man, hair fully grayed and petite in stature. He’s lived in America most of his life, so he doesn’t have an accent. However, he does speak greek. His apartment was….difficult to describe. Imagine your grandmother’s house squeezed unto a 650 sq ft apartment, and arranged to suit a late in life bachelor. Greek flags or other imported paraphernalia hung from walls or sat on shelves. Canned food was organized not only in the kitchen, but also along shelves behind the couch and next to the television.

Our meal was simple: Grilled salmon seasoned with a little olive oil, dried oregano, and salt; salad drizzled with a little balsamic vinegar, and potato salad. We were asked for our opinion on every step of the meal’s preparation. Being cooks, we’ve grown accustomed to this reaction. However, Petros is a stubborn greek through and through, and our neutral opinions on his food prep were met with “Ok good! I was going to do it my way anyway! Just wanted to make sure it tastes ok to everyone else.”

We were able to see the complete cat deck setup, which had several carpet-lined shelves where the kitties (Alexander and Kukula) could look out. The planters were chained high enough that the cats couldn’t get into them, but low enough that Petros could grow some herbs on his back porch and plant a few tea roses for color as it grew warmer.

Our conversation ranged over many topics. Having been born an orphan in Greece, Petros was adopted by an american family somewhere near the skagit valley. On hindsight, most of our conversing was Alexir and I offering a listening ear while Petros shared his stories. We learned that his godfather owns the Continental Kitchen in the university district (which is, in his opinion, the best greek food in Seattle). He had stories of the greek restauranteurs and their different takes on various popular foods. In that scene, it is quite common for men to bring their children and visit the restaurants of friends before they open to lend a hand. Work could be as simple as mashing potatoes or as labor-intensive as folding 300 dolmades (stuffed grape leaves). Either way, it was often in exchange for a small meal and a thank you.

We also spoke of him being invited into his godfather’s restaurant and taught to cook. After a year of working for free, he was gifted photograph copies of all the owner’s recipes. I saw a few of these photos, neatly written recipes on well-loved carstock. You could sense Petros’ pride in being offered such an honor. It’s not everyday that chef, be they friend or family, would share their restaurant’s recipes. After dinner, Alexir brought up his bottle of 18 year aged balsamic vinegar and offered to leave some with our host as a token of our appreciation. This turned into a massive food exchange, the likes of which I haven’t experienced before. Petros gave us half a bottle of his balsamic vinegar, an entire filet of the salmon we had just grilled, half a loaf of tsoureki (greek easter bread, made by his godfather), and a second loaf of greek bread. We gave him all of the chocolate chip cookies, the aforementioned vinegar, and a promise that we’d share extras from our next culinary adventures.

I recently read an article about the social behavior of Seattle residents. The feeling was that Seattle is excellent at being “nice on the surface”, but that few people are willing to make the jump from “let’s do something sometime soon!” to “I’m free tomorrow, let’s meet for dinner”. It felt great to break away from that norm and just talk with someone I might never have had the chance to otherwise.

The next day, Petros showed up at my front door with a baggies of loukanika style sausage he had made. He even cooked me a sample piece. So sweet. I had to immediately put it in the freezer, as Alexir and I rarely cook much on work days. The salmon came to work with me and went into family meal that day. I’m completely unaccustumed to being gifted so much food from someone I just met.

I have two running mental food-related bucket lists. One is of all the foods I’d love to try. The second is more about the situations I’d like to engage in that relate to food (eating in a ramen stall in Japan or hawker stand in Singapore, sharing a bottle of wine with a bunch of strangers, etc). Having a meal with a neighbor was on that list, and I’m proud to be able to cross it off. Cheers to stepping outside the comfort zone and expanding community, one meal at a time.

My Pan Runneth Over

Success! The sourdough starter I began this weekend has taken off and is what other bloggers refer to as “healthy and active”. After feeding it once a day since Sunday, it has progressed to doubling its volume every 4 hours. This is a convenient time reference, as I typically wake up between 8 or 9 on work days. Yesterday, I fed the culture when I got up, then monitored it until about 12.

Once the culture reaches this stage, the wild yeasts and the lactobacillus (bacteria that cause the sour taste) are reproducing at a steady rate. At each feeding, I keep tossing 1/2 to 3/4 of my current starter. This isn’t so bad at the beginning, but is sad once you realize it’s a viable ingredient. So yesterday became day 1 of trying to use said starter’s poured off portion for something.

I followed a basic recipe for a San Francisco style sourdough. There’s a bakery there that has maintained the same “mother” starter for 100 years. I mixed everything, and meticulously kneaded by hand for the full 20 minutes as the recipe directs.

I allowed the dough to rest, shaped my loaf, and then placed it on a silpat (brushed with oil) on a cookie sheet. I oiled a round tupperware and placed it over the little ball of dough to prevent it from drying out. The recipe noted that it very well may take up to 15 hours for the dough to proof, as temperatures and vibrancy of starters can vary. I placed the setup in my oven, which was off except for the interior light. I’ve found  that proofing yeasted breads and the sourdough starter in this manner have good results. With the light on and the door closed, the internal temp of the oven it somewhere between 70* and 75* F.

At work yesterday, I spent my slow moment picturing my pretty little proofed loaf of dough. I thought, “perhaps it will be really reactive and climb the walls of the inverted tupperware a bit so it has a funky shape.

I burst through the door once I got home, and checked on my now 10 hour old dough. My reaction when I peeked in the oven was something along the lines of “Oh, sweet Jesus!”. My dough had indeed proofed, though not as intended. There was a fairly puffy ball inside the inverted tupperware, and there was a massive, bubbly swap of dough stretching almost to the outer limits of the cookie sheet. Yikes! Lessons learned: Be firmer when shaping the loaf so as to create enough surface tension to keep in in place AND weigh the top of any cover to prevent escape. And perhaps save the next test loaf for a weekend day so I’ll be around to monitor it rising.

Sadly, the “escaped” dough had formed a thick crust on it from too much expose. After peeling off the crusty bits, I salvaged what I could and formed a loaf. I made two very deep slashes and baked it off.Shockingly, the little loaf turned out pretty good. Even though it wasn’t given a lot of time to rest between reshaping and baking, I still managed some good air bubbles and a soft internal texture. The taste was sour, but not overpoweringly so. Add to it a little spoonful of my homemade cultured butter and you’re set.

This of course means my next potential purchase is a brotformen (bread form) basket. That’s how you get the nifty little circles or ovals you see on artisan loaves at farmers markets.

Side note: I also used some more starter pour off to make a batch of sourdough chocolate chip cookies. I’d give them a “meh” to “ok” rating. I like the bit of sour, but using a bread dough base means the final cookies will taste more like a chocolate chip roll than chewy cookie. Perhaps sourdough cinnamon rolls this weekend will fare better.

For whatever reason (probably it was pushed 1am at this point) I completely forgot to take photos of this process. I promise next time I’ll remember.

 

Feeding the Friendship Culture or The Power of Sour

 Expressed to boyfriend (via letting him read the last blog post) about needing support of a specific kind. And he (in all his sweet, malleable glory) took it to heart and was by my side all weekend. He forced me to sit still for a solid 3 hours, while we tackled the Cloud Atlas movie. He also did a load of dishes after I tore apart the kitchen with several cooking projects. These included gougeres, pulled pork, and whole wheat baguettes.

In honor of Earth Day, I elected to capture some of mother nature’s bounty in a food way and create a sourdough starter. If you are a fellow lover of sourdough breads, you know the almost elusive earthy sour taste from an excellent load of bread can be intoxicating. The people who succeed best at these breads do so because they develop and maintain a “mother” sourdough culture that they use for all their breads. I attempted to grow one last summer right after I moved into my new apartment, but managed to get impatient and kill the poor thing both times. My mission was reborn while reading the opening chapter to “The Man Who Ate Everything” by Jeffrey Steingarten.

I did a lot more research this time and will, quite sheepishly, admit I cheated a bit. I threw in a pinch of Bob’s Red Mill yeast and a pinch of sugar. NOT that a completely natural flour and water mixture is incapable of taking off, but I wanted to have some insurance of my results with it being so cold outside still.

I also went so far as to buy a small bag of whole wheat berries (unground wheat) and stone ground wheat flour from whole foods. I ground these together for my initial flour contribution, as much of the naturally occurring yeast sourdough cultures need come from the husks of wheat.

While my culture was given time to start fermenting, I went about kneading my baguette dough. During cooking activities that requires minimal mental focus, I allow myself to meditate on other things. Kneading bread, cutting vegetables, stirring sauces all are therapeutic to me because I have the time to stand still and consider what has been bothering me.

This last two weeks’ focus has been a fairly straightforward one: support. Every person, regardless of their independent nature needs a solid support system. I am no stranger to this subject, I too need support in tough times.

A good friendship is as balanced as a good sourdough starter. It starts with equal efforts from both parties. Four ounces of fresh flour meets four ounces of clean water. The two are given a common ground. As if out of nowhere, bubbles start to appear over time. The humble mixture develops a life of it’s own.

Also the same as a friendship, the key to a healthy culture is equal efforts coming from both sides. Once a culture takes off, you must throw away half the culture (as otherwise you’d be breeding TOO many yeast and it wouldn’t grow the right mixture) and again mix in equal parts flour and water. With friendship, you often let go of past arguments or issues and move on with effort and positive experiences together.

Let’s say you get busy. Work asks you to take on a few more shifts. You’re exhausted when you get home. You don’t even have the energy to shower before flopping into your unmade bed. Next thing you know 3 or 4 days have passed and you remember you haven’t fed your culture. You rush to the cabinet, and toss a handful of flour in. Mixing feverishly, the dying culture blob sticks to the end of your spatula. You splash in some water, hoping to fix things. But sadly, all you have in an overly sour mess.

See where I’m going here? The kitchen can be a rough, fickle mistress. I knowingly go into work everyday unsure of whether it will be a ghost town or a complete shit show. I understand that I’ll likely be heading home with a handful of new cuts/burns/bruises. While I love my kitchen family, sometimes I need some interaction with the outside world. I need to be reminded that I’m human. I felt really crappy, exhausted, and down on myself this weekend and didn’t feel like I had anyone to call on besides Aleixr. I need friends who know I’ve called, texted, e-mailed them solely to check in on them to offer up the same courtesy. I have a long history of being overly nice to others, and being crushed when I come the realization that I’ve created a one-sided friendship. And my ongoing mission for the last year has been to weed these people out of my life. I don’t want to spend my free time always being the one to drive out to others. I don’t always want to feel like the social director because every else is too busy or tired.  The world needs to stop glorifying busy and allowing people to use it as an excuse for inaction. 

 

Nurture the things you love.

 

The Paradox of the Alpha Female

Ongoing inner struggles. Story of my life. The feeling of needing to be a “strong woman” is a perfect example.

Remember Tom Hanks’ character in “A League of Their Own”? It went something along the lines of “Are you crying?!?! There’s no crying in baseball!!” The same could be said of women in the kitchen. You are expected to maintain a certain level of strength and decorum regardless of what may be going on outside the kitchen. No one cares if it’s PMS week. It’s not their problem if you’re tired, hungry, etc. The point is to buck up and do your job.

I have always found myself to be a quiet alpha female. In my last relationship, this was pushed to the limit, as my boyfriend at the time struggled with 3-4 years of ongoing medical issues (herniated discs, anxiety, diabetes) and later substance abuse. During this time, it was all about Ashley taking care of Ashley…and Matt. There was no “we” in terms of cooking, cleaning, etc. I built up my own set of reasoning about cause and effect during this. Bust your ass, and take care of yourself. Don’t ask others to take care of you, it’s unlikely that will ever happen anyhow.

This attitude is good for the kitchen. You have your own station to manage on the line. You need to keep control over the list of tickets, your estimated fire times, what needs to be cleaned/organized/restocked whenever you next have a free moment.

However, this mindset is physically and mentally exhausting. You spend your whole shift clinging to a sense of control over your station. When needed, you try to adjust and cooperate with other cooks and chefs. You watch your station be annihilated during service when it gets busy.

The last two weeks have been especially trying at work with Seattle Restaurant Week and the fact that we’re still down a saute cook. This means that even when we’re done making food at the end of a busy night, we still look at the kitchen and know we have one less person to help with cleaning. Our chef and sous chef do help as much as they can, but they have a plethora of other responsibilities at the end of the night with ordering and other important things.

The boyfriend is trying, but it is so hard to make him understand what I need when I can’t even verbalize it properly. How do you say you need, when you’re not a needy person? When we first started living together, he was adjusting to a busy job and I took on a lot of the cleaning. Now that it is (usually) a more even workload at both jobs, I’m trying to offer up suggestions for shared chores (laundry, dishes, etc). It’s a tough thing to start and maintain. This is compounded by the fact that the NUMBER ONE thing that stresses me out during times when I’m already stressed and mentally exhausted is having to make decisions. I spend all day at work thinking critically, I am a very calculated person.  When I get home, the two things that help me relax the most are 1.) Having a clean apartment and 2.) The absence of need to make any decisions. He wants/needs input about what I want, because he wants to help me relax. But questions as benign as “Do you want to watch an episode of Archer or Law and Order SVU?” throw me back into stress and negate the premise of what he’s trying to accomplish.

Last night, I had yet another late night. We had diners until 11:30 (we close at 11) and didn’t leave until 11:45ish. I got home, and the first thing I was greeted with was “You’re home late.” accompanied by a questioning look. It’s very odd for me to come home any later than 11:20ish on a Thursday. This was the third day in a row of finishing late. And that was enough to set me off. The “alpha female” starts crying. Because it’s literally too exhausting to even think about everything that happened during the day/week. Because I don’t want to think about how late I may get out of work the following nights. Then boyfriend is confused because I’m crying, tries to help by putting on a show for us to watch, and aforementioned downward spiral regarding decision making occurs. This week it barely matters, I can hardly keep my eyes open for more than an hour once I sit down at home.

Restaurant week is FINALLY over, and I couldn’t be happier. Sadly, there are still two full days of service that are undoubtedly going to be busy. Fridays and Saturdays are almost always as such.

I looked in my sink, saw the 6 dishes from this morning, and cried. How ridiculous is that? It takes 5 minutes to do the dishes. But I’m so tired, so sore, so emotionally spent. The prospect of anything seems beyond daunting. I know I’ll make it. I would never doubt my ability to do so. There are plenty of people who have it worse.

It’s just a tough week.

It’s hard to make someone understand that you want not to be leaned on, but to be encouraged to lean on them.

And it’s hard to ask for help when you feel guilty doing so, or don’t know how.