The meal is over

Author's note:
 
I found the following post - never completed, which was written on the day of the "Grand Opening" of the Brunswick Woods new construction. That, I believe, was almost a year ago, if not longer and so much has happened since then. The landscape, once mired by bulldozers and hardhats is now a bit of paradise.   Many of our friends choose to escape the madness as I once hoped to as well. But now, as life has returned to normal and we begin a new chapter, I'm glad that I stayed.  However, the following which offers some personal closure, was worth publishing...PRF
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Two years have passed since the insanity began at Brunswick Woods.  Once a living nightmare, the landscape is now the view of tranquility.   This project has challenged my philosophy of "look on the bright side," or "say something nice" as my family endured noise, inconvenience and health hazards of living within a construction zone.

Today's official "Grand Opening" final presents a chance for closure.

Any time of change is hard. Especially when it's beyond your control. 

Like any challenging time in life, it's finally over. No strangers running around, no dangerous equipment, no business politics. Just a chance to take in the view and enjoy the summer breeze.

I've finished the meal and cleaned up after dinner. Pleasantries have run their course. Now it's time for me to say "good bye."  To the many friends I made in this journey or strangers brave enough to try my food and even to those who caused me pain - thank you for enriching my life.

Three month perspective

First, the disclaimer: this piece is not intended to be a male bashing column. That said -   the situation is vying on my nerves. I’m tired of making lemonade, but fortunately it goes against the grain of my nature to make war.

So instead, today I intend to focus on what is important -   an overall ignorance on behalf of this male species that infests my territory when it comes to appreciation of good shoes.

This crew seems to have none, perhaps because I do possess enough wisdom to spare myself passage through the mud in the kick-ass open-toed, spiked heels.

Three months, three seasons and eight pairs of shoes later – the destruction has not only had its impact on my vacation and business, but has now worked its way into my sanctuary – discriminating not between the $150 leather boots, Liz Claiborne casuals or the $10 Walmart special. And we won’t discuss last summer’s sandals and their early demise. Forgive me if I’m not a sneaker person. We all have our quirks and I, for one, care how I look and in stark disagreement with my male friends, strongly believe that the right shoes make the outfit. Now, if I were wearing a short-skirt and wrap around heels I am sure they would agree, but my complaints regarding my basic footwear have, for the most part, been matched with vacant, stares that seemingly lack understanding to this hardship.

Elbow grease and a little TLC, over time much of the dirt and grime will be gone, but symbolically, the pile of footwear accumulating in my living room has become a symbol of adversity and patience.   As much as the tenants of Brunswick Woods may “gripe” about the battle weary conditions – this is, as we all know, a temporary set-back to an overall pleasant reward.   It’s important to remember that in many countries throughout the world, such is not the case. The battles are real – fought with gunfire and tanks – not our tools of progress.   The parking lot is almost done. I am counting the days. Meanwhile, my four-year-old counts dump trucks, fork lifts and cement mixers.  And the monument of shoes continues to accumulate in my living room – a testament not only to the Mars and Venus differences, but the abundance enjoyed through the American way of life.  As life, this season will eventually pass into another. In the meantime, a word of advice in those reading this – now is a great time to invest in stock, specifically DSW and Payless.

Culture Shock

It’s been said the best way to understand a culture is by immersion. If such is the case, then by now, I should be somewhat of an expert on the opposite sex – 9 to 10 hour days, six days a week – totally and completely surrounded by men.

Some friends joke that except for the mud and noise, I am now living the dream life of a 41-year-old divorcee.  On most days I would argue, it’s more like a living nightmare. Now please don’t take this the wrong way – I am not male bashing, just simply, beginning to recognize that I fail to understand them as much as they fail to understand me. At least once I day I pause to wonder, can I learn to embrace such cultural differences?  Lord knows I have tried.  I’ve had a beer and attempted to learn about slopes, curing, framing and other trade specifics.  When in Rome, well, sadly I am finding that despite my best efforts, I prefer Tuscany better. The casualties of this experiment include five pairs of now mud-coated black shoes and the occasionally somewhat bruised ego.    These are not carpenter ants, but true home invaders disrupting my respite from the world in their attempts to conform my home to their own specifications.  I recognize that despite my best attempts at understanding, their lives remain as foreign to me as mine is to them.   The only way to survive this experience is to let the worker bugs bee and hope that sooner, versus later – this season will be over.   I fear that this desire makes me a primadona and it is not my intention to say that one of us is better than the other. More simply, it’s time for us all to be – me in my designer suits and heels and they in their work boots, perhaps not blending, but more so, peacefully co-existing.  At this point I fail to see any tangibles, aside from the obvious risks associated with a lack of judgment.

Life's two basic truths

First, I must give credit to the two individuals who helped me to learn such truths: Kathleen and Scott. In this blog I have attempted to respect privacy and will jsut simply hope that they know who they are and how much I appreciate their honesty has concluded this story. And, since my cooking days are somewhat over, I suspect that this will make a fitting end - the two truths:

1. Men lie

2. Real men run from quiche


Call me a Polly Anna, but despite evidence of both truths, I will never fully believe. We can blame my grandpa for that - Burdette Reese -   who swore, to his dying die - that even at the age of 12, I baked a great apple pie.   Grandpa, and his son, my dad, set the template of expectations for men in my life and for better or worse - I choose optimism over the facts that have colored this piece of two, seemingly unrelated but closely intertwined truths.

It started with quiche day - after weeks of meat and potatos food, I craved something different. A simple quiche and salad - just the thought stirred a basic longing.. The idea, pitched and well-received - a seeming slam dunk - until Thursday came. That day, ok, cooking interupped by rain and those who dined much more appreciated the warm soup - a tomato veggie mix that permiated the very soul.  A literal raincheck - quiche on Saturday. A twist of fate, or purposeful avoidance (as if one can easily hide a concrete foundation) - noon to 2 they are nowhere to be found and ok, I'll admit - six inches of mud- at this point I'm a bit tired of looking.  Perhaps "if you build it they will come" works on development, but this theory fails to hold when it comes to food. A sigh of relief - again, something fun to write about, made all the more entertaining my Scott's unwitting admission on Monday. As Kathleen said - it's a basic fact, men lie and it was only much later that I received a sheepish admission "yea, to women we do."

I have two theories on this  - there's a fine line between lying and being polite and I believe in this gray area my grandpa told me the truth - under any given circumstances, when faced with hunger, cold and unpleasant circumstances, almost anything I make will be good, or at the very least, eatible.   And I will suspect that if they'd not been running so quickly in the other direction, the quiche might have sufficed too - although I've been told, repeatedly, nothing beats the homemade chicken tacos.

The onion ring romance

I met him briefly Saturday - Derrick - the thought of his smile as he stopped suddenly and promised not to run me over with the steam roller - then carry my bags to my apartment. In this day of on-line connections, I seem to be lacking a manual on what to do when romance falls, or in this case, rolls into your life. 

It's the first time in the frenzy of this cooking craze, that I felt completely foolish - embarrassed for befriending the strangers.  He came over after work to pick up a batch of the greasy treats and as unrequited romance goes, he left much too quickly. A few kind words - came to say "hi" and thanks. He said I was kind to offer as I cringed inwardly, hoping that he wouldn't notice the Saturday cleaning disaster that had engulfed my abode.   Flour and dishes strewn throughout the kitchen, the overwhelming smell of grease and a living room torn apart because, in addition to cooking, I was attempting to rearrange for the winter.   It's seldom I feel awkward. I didn't know what to say.   A bit of chit chat - he was here for the day, just for paving - moving elsewhere on Monday. A handshake, a smile, and he was gone. Life, seldom is it fair. For once, I'd rather not be cooking for the masses, but longed for the opportunity to have an simple cup of coffee and maybe, just maybe, to cook only for one, or better yet, do take out.  

Testerone & Quiche? We will never know..

When it comes to a choice between Quiche Lorraine or onion rings, the grease saturated latter choice is the overwhelming winner. This conclusion comes in spite of a four-day conscious among the lunch crew that  yes, real men eat quiche. In fact, one of them said that real men will eat anything.   Based on their carnal desire, I might have to agree, having wondered on many occasions if they would share such enthusiasm for a mud pie - as long as it's hot.

Quiche day, like the weather, was a bust - a torrential downpour sent most scrambling for the comforts of home. Only I, with a 4-year-old in frog boots in toe, dared to brave the elements. On the bright side, nobody cared if it was a good, or bad hair-day.  

Do real men eat quiche?

That is, the million dollar question, but I am sure at this point, I could cook mud and if it's warm, they will eat it. Actually, I am told that real men do eat quiche, although they do not call it that - but prefer to give it a manly name, such as pork.