Waiting for an Exit

Waitress is next on the list of my first seven jobs. I was a pretty poor waitress, but sometimes it was fun. Yes, fun. One day during setup at a resort, we played stripper music on the jukebox and threw silverware around the dinning room, as if we were casting off clothes. Flying forks, knives and spoons. All over. Then we picked them up, debated whether or not they should be washed, and set all the tables. You decide.

As a waitress, I worked at various resorts, restaurants and greasy spoons.  If a bar was attached, I drank too, usually as much as possible. One slow afternoon, a bartender of my acquaintance used a little book entitled “Booze” and made every drink listed.  The Zombie was our favorite, but that may be just because it was last. Or, because it had two kinds of rum, liqueurs, fruit juice and pieces of fruit, plus a little umbrella. That afternoon, we swore eternal allegiance to all drinks with little umbrellas.


In my experience, people wait table for tips. The more your patrons drink, the better the tip. Breakfast, for instance, is not a lucrative meal. Dinner is. But sometimes there are unavoidable problems. Like the kitchen catching fire.  That episode led to free drinks for patrons and food that came so late it wasn’t even fun. And the best tip I ever received was waiting on a banquet of plumbers.  Plumbers have had my respect ever since.

Once, I worked at a diner-type establishment where the cook/owner often walked out. I was not apprised of this, however, until it happened.  diner-style-sourdough-burgers-4I was left with burgers on the grill, fries in the fryer and no clue how to make a chocolate egg cream. The patrons sitting at the counter helped me by calling out things such as, “flip the burger, honey,” and “the fries are ready when the light is green.” An egg cream is made with seltzer, milk and chocolate syrup. No umbrella needed. True to form, I only worked there once.chefs-1662719_640

At other venues, I was often afraid of chefs, dishwashers and assorted others who hung out in hot, steamy kitchens. Returning a displeased patron’s meal was the worst.  One chef, who spoke only Greek, threw rolls at wait staff he disliked. At least rolls were soft. I also encountered growling chefs, one armed with a giant knife, and of course, the drinkers, who as a rule were not happy drunks.  I was  glad for the stainless steel pickup table that was in front of the ovens, burners, fryers and grill. And ice machines give me the creeps (see below).

The job I really hated was cocktail waitress. I disliked it so much that I unconsciously caused my own firing.  Customers, usually single men, propositioned you, and if you got through that, serving drinks was really boring. As I recall, the men who did not offer their services were just plain obnoxious, and so were their wives. Girlfriends tended to be kind. I offer no social analysis; it was the Seventies.

As a cocktail waitress, I violated Rule One which is: ALWAYS USE THE SCOOP IN THE ICE MACHINE. ice-scoopice-in-machineIf you insert a glass directly into the ice piled up in the machine, rather than using the scoop, you risk breaking the glass, and if it breaks, there is no way to find the pieces and the whole thing has to be drained, and then everyone is without ice and you get fired on the spot. It was about my third night.

We nearly always tip liberally in my family.  Everyone has heard these stories and knows the drill. It’s the right thing to do.tip1




My Salad Days

…My salad days, / When I was green in judgment, cold in blood…

A salad girl makes salads. She prepares vegetables, makes dressings and works opposite the appetizer woman in a busy restaurant in Thendara, N.Y. called The Knotty Pine (now for sale).

The appetizer woman, who shows the salad girl the ropes,  has a wicked cough, which is apparently not catching. Her name is Norma, and she lives in a mobile home out back with two kids. Unaccountably, she disappears whenever health inspectors arrive.
There are two cooks from Big Moose, who are brothers, and two dishwashers. And, about six waiters and waitresses and a bartender.
Each plate that leaves the kitchen, no matter what’s on it, is checked by the restaurant owner before it goes into the dinning room.  Bette, the owner, lives in the apartment above the restaurant, and leaves once a week to go to the bank and get her hair done. She tells you this proudly.

In among the Iceberg
  Found among the Iceberg

Things begin calmly. I go into the walk-in cooler and fetch lettuce to wash. There is a small green snake crawling in the bottom of the crate. I exit and say, “There’s a snake in the lettuce.” They tell me it’s my job to catch it.  I almost quit, but then they let me in on the joke. I am cautious evermore in the lettuce crates.

Real Rouquefort
Real Roquefort

Next, I grate the cabbage for the Perfection salad. (photo above) It’s served with real Roquefort dressing. Bette gets the cheese directly from France, and she has an import license. I am filled in on the difference between blue cheese and Roquefort almost daily. In addition to the lettuce wedge and the Perfection salad, we also serve a green salad, and a Waldorf salad. But mainly customers come for the dressings, which are creamy and delicious. Everyone wants a big slather of those dressings. Nobody says, “on the side.”Of course, after waiting over an hour in line to get in, the appetizers and the salad are the first things customers eat. But the dressings are good, hunks of cheese, mayonnaise and cream, plus seasonings. I make them in huge five gallon jugs, which go —you guessed it— in the walk-in.

The Walk-in
The Walk-in Freezer

One fateful day I drop a full dressing container on my foot. It hurts, but not as much as the furor caused by the waste of French cheese. Norma saves my skin that day, and I never have to tote full containers again. As a salad girl, I have a lot to learn.

Norma also teaches me some life lessons. She is a survivor, but barely. Her kids are young, her husband is in jail, and it sounds like he is no good. She works because she has to. The trailer she lives in is Bette’s and the family eats leftover restaurant food. Everyone in town shakes their heads sadly when her name is mentioned. “Poor Norma,” they say. She is rail thin, tiny and sick. She has a terrible cough that sometimes rattles her until she goes outside to calm it.
She says it’s asthma, but I think maybe it’s TB or worse. Whatever, the health inspector is not to know.

Shrimp cocktail container
Shrimp cocktail container

Every plate Norma prepares is perfect; she takes pride in her work. Shrimp cocktail in a stainless steel contraption with ice is her specialty. And on busy nights her fingers fly, while mine just slug through.

Vendors, sometimes local fishermen, come and go. There are many vendors because Bette is picky. Fish is often fresh caught, meat is specially selected and chicken comes from a family-run farm downstate. The veg man, Freddie, carries a gun in his truck. I am not sure why.

Tado, the dishwasher relieves his tension by “riding” big dirty pots and pans around the kitchen. He is a frustrated jockey. And a heroin addict, so they say. He disappears every Fridays and goes to Utica.

The bartender is pretty much drunk by evening’s end. Everyone else is exhausted as well. The “evening rush” sometimes lasts until midnight. And it starts all over again the next day.

Perfection Salad had to be made ahead with gellatin. Our had way more dressing on top.
Perfection Salad has to be made ahead with gelatin. Ours had way more dressing on top.

My job as a salad girl teaches me, first and foremost, to avoid restauranteering as a career.

It also adds to my beliefs about family, or community or whatever you call it. A kitchen, a bar and a dinning room can create a family, however flawed and rough.

And, life really can knock you down and kill you. That from Norma, who died two years later as I was graduating from college.

Last, being a salad girl always reminds me of just how lucky I am.knottypine


A Maid in the Woods

Back to that Twitter hashtag about first jobs…The summer after my sojourn on the lake in upstate New York,  I sought a job in Old Forge, the gateway to the Adirondack Mountains. As a family, we always went “to the woods” in the summer. This summer, after my freshman year in college, I lived with my gram, in a funny green shotgun house behind the laundry she and my grandfather used to own.

Old Forge is a resort town, full of summer vacationers and fun-seekers. Many visited The Enchanted Forrest, a resort that featured circus shows, reenacters, rides and animals. A statue of Paul Bunyon lorded over everything in the park. To my fascination, Gram rented a cabin behind her house to a man with a long white beard. In the winter, he lived in LA and played Santa Claus. In the summer, he was a gold rush prospector. The Flying Walledas also summered at the Enchanted Forest. But that’s another story.


The Enchanted Forest had a storytale/Paul Bunyon theme. It opened in 1956, around the same time as Disneyland

The daytime job I secured was as a maid to a family from Virginia. They owned a “camp” at the very exclusive Adirondack League Club. signFounded in 1890, the Club owns 53,000 acres, with “rustic” camps on private lakes. To this day, the public is not allowed on club land, which is for the use of members who hunt and fish and relax. It is a gated community. I live in one now, but it’s not the same.

Things I learned as a maid in the woods:

  1. A near-perfect house would be like the one I worked in. It was on Little Moose Lake. All the rooms were joined by a long, winding, covered boardwalk. The bedrooms, kitchen and dinning room, living room, guest houses and a huge game room-all were all separate. Bathrooms were attached. Every time you went to another room, you had to go outside.  It was perfect because you always got to see the lake and the loons and the tall evergreen trees.
    A typical camp at the Adirondack League Club


2.Some people are rich enough to afford a house like this AND a cattle farm.
3. A cook is a really good idea if you can afford it.

Their chef was Swiss, but you get the idea
Their chef was Swiss, but you get the idea

5. A separate laundry room with a window rocks.
6. Rich people might ask you to buy your own uniform.
7. You can say no to some job-related requests.
9. Adirondack lakes are mist-covered early in the morning.misty lake


7. Loons are fantastic birds. They call each other incessantly and it sounds creepily romantic.loon

10.Adirondack style is a real thing. Handmade furniture and deer antler chandeliers are beautiful. Stuffed heads, not so much.

I didn’t know what Adirondack style was then, but now I do

11. Last, Enchanted Forests are sometimes turned in to huge Water Safaris. There are no gold rush prospectors, but Paul Bunyon remains.Paul

Coming up, my Old Forge night-time job, salad girl….stay tuned as I move up in the culinary world.

A Job on a Lake

Finger Lakes are long, narrow and blue
Finger Lakes are long, narrow and very blue

A recent Twitter hashtag queried “What were your first seven jobs?” Celebrities and common folk chimed in, and got me thinking. Babysitting, check. Nanny-type duties at a house in the Finger Lakes, check. Salad girl, check. Maid, check.
Wait a minute, let’s think about a life lesson or two along the way.

First, I must admit that I was incredibly naive. I mean really unsophisticated, except I read books. Reading, at least, offered a view of the world outside my hometown, which had a total population of 2,000. I was 18.

At the lake house, I was in charge of a family of children. I think there were three or four; some came and went. Their Dad had custody for a month, but he was home at night very occasionally and sometimes on weekends.  Some things I learned:

Tuna Noodle Casserole is best if you turn on the oven
Tuna Noodle Casserole is best if you turn on the oven–I forgot
  1. Actual cooking is hard.
  2. Always keep bread and peanut butter and jelly in the cupboard.
  3. Maggots in the garbage container can be killed with Tide detergent and hot water.
  4. Night thunderstorms are best endured if everyone gets into the same bed.
  5. Some Siamese cats like to sleep under the sheets.
  6. Reading aloud is fun.

    We all loved this book
    We all loved this book
  7. When walking to the beach at night, wear a big hat to protect you from bats.

    My hat wasn't this big, but it worked
    My hat wasn’t this big, but it worked
  8. If your employer’s mother asks you to hide his evening beer supply, do it.
  9. Alcoholism is a real disease.
  10. Families are what you make them, even if they only last a month.DucksStay tuned–coming up: “A Maid in the Woods” and “Tales of a Salad Girl.”

Sunday Morning Bike Mystery


I wish this could be a post about the beauties of life. Instead, it’s about my Sunday morning bike ride around my neighborhood, outside the gated community which contains my home. Florida is full of gated communities.  Not sure why…to keep people out or to keep people in? It’s a fair question.


Cute, but no actual guard
     Cute, but no actual guard

Exiting, I rode down the public street, on the sidewalk, past other gated communities. On my left, I spied a record. An album. Vinyl. Whole, untouched, cast into the grass between the road and the sidewalk.  Soon came the sleeve, and then the cover.  Then, another and another.  I rode on , thinking what might have unfolded. But it was early, and I was intent on exercise.

Later, I rode back and found the street still festooned with records. Vinyl records.  33 1/2 rpm, unscratched and pristine, so I gathered them up. They could have blown off a moving truck, I thought, but out of the sleeves? And the covers? My mind went wild. An affair gone sour? An attempt at a new life? A musical reckoning?

There were also bottles and cans that I felt sure were clues.  After arriving home and obtaining a bag, I returned to collect all the evidence. Miller Light, two cans of Red Bull and a big can of hard cider. Redd’s Wicked Apple Refreshingly Hard Ale. Not exactly a high to be proud of. But it might have worked if you needed to pitch your past.

I traced the records, sleeves and covers to a nearby apartment complex. My detection senses awoke.  Clues, I thought.  It was not the end of the month when evictions rule, but clearly someone thought it was a time to get rid of irrelevant stuff .

The albums were: Sweet Freedom by Uriah Heep, Elton John’s Victim of Love, Supertramp’s Famous Last Words and the Edgar Winter Group’s Shock Treatment. These are not hit albums. But they might have been important to the thrower. Say around the the late 70ties and 80ties.

Suppose that person wanted to start anew? Throw out old vinyls and move on. A Victim of Love who is now enjoying Sweet Freedom? At least, that’s what I think.

Uriah Heep




It’s what we call the rainy season in Florida.  Many snowbirds have headed north.  The real birds have as well. When it rains here you can see fish in the street. It’s a fact. They come up through the drains.

dead wake

It’s time to read and possibly nap.  Yesterday I finished Dead Wake by Erik Larson.  I’m moving on, reading-wise, but first I wanted to congratulate Mr. Larson on clearing up a mystery.  His research into the lives of passengers on the Lusitania makes the story come to life.  I love narrative non-fiction, and he is a master. (ErikLarsonbooks.com)

Theodate Pope
            Theodate Pope

One of the survivors of the Lusitania’s torpedoing was named Theodate Pope. In her life, she had long struggled with depression. When she boarded the ship, Theodate was 48, wore a velvet turban and was a singular woman for her time.  She was born in 1867 and lived in Farmington, CT, where she went to Miss Porter’s school.  Since this is about me, as usual, it should be noted that one of my college roommates had attended the same school. I also take anti-depressants daily.

During one of her bouts with depression, Theo’s wealthy parents sent her to Philadelphia to be treated by Dr. Silas Weir Mitchell, who treated women with so-called nervous difficulties with a “rest cure.” If you took his cure, you had to remain bed-ridden for weeks, sometimes up to two months.  Inactivity was supposed to cure the patient, who was not even allowed to get up to go to the bathroom! No sewing, reading or–god forbid–writing. Nothing but cleaning your teeth–again all this information researched by the wonderful, curious mind of Erik Larson.


Dr. Mitchell’s approach was later exposed in a popular short-story called “The Yellow Wallpaper” written by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Gilman was a patient in 1887, a year before Theodate Pope. Gilman’s story is still taught by English teachers today.  I was one of them. In my high school we taught it along with Kate Chopin’s classic The Awakening.  Mystery solved. I always wondered what the hell that story was about.  I had a dim idea it was about a woman going nuts, but I was never sure.  Truth be told, I’m still puzzled by it, but now I know the relevant back story and can see the link to emerging feminist thought. (Here’s a link to the complete story. You can read it in about 10 minutes. https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1952/1952-h/1952-h.htm)

Reading can open closed doors!  But I hope it’s not to a room with yellow wallpaper.  Or a ship with four smoke stacks. Then again, we can read about them both on a rainy day in Florida. Next up, Sherman Alexie’s War Dances.

The Lusitania before she was torpedoed
    The Lusitania before she was torpedoed

Historic Bread Towels



I have moved 15 times in 69 years. First, Wellsville, Leroy, Canandaigua, Jordan and Syracuse, all in New York State. In my peripatetic 20ties,  I also moved five times, all in Syracuse : Columbus Ave, Lancaster and Ackerman Avenues and finally the infamous Green Street.  Green Street deserves a blog all its own.

Towels encase the bread babies
   Bread babies in my towels

At 24,  I decamped for SE Washington DC, married at 27 and my husband and I bought a house in NW Washington’s Mount Pleasant neighborhood.  Finally, we moved to the Bannockburn neighborhood in Bethesda, MD, with a short year and a half in Overland Park, KS. Now, we live in Ft. Myers, Florida. About an average life, moving-wise, I think.

Homespun hole
             Homespun hole

The thing is, I have three dish towels that have moved with me for the past  40 years. They are the dish-drying kind, soft and finely woven. One is even reported to be homespun linen, and it has a square hole in the middle of it.

Holey calendar towel
             Holey calendar towel

Another is a calendar towel from my parents house, dated 1971. It also is holey (I am not a punning woman). My favorite, stained but still usable is my Jane Austen towel. On it, there is a depiction of her house Chawton,  and some quotes, including “I am  very sorry to hear, Miss Fairfax of your being out this morning in the rain.”  Me too.

Jane's towel
                    Jane’s towel

I use these towels only when I make bread.  I love sourdough bread because it tastes good, and my son taught me to make it, but recently I began to see the process in a new light. In the light of towels.

These are historic, meaningful towels, worn and stained as they are. When I put the sourdough to rise the last time, these towels are rubbed with a rice and wheat flour mixture to prevent the bread from sticking to them. I spread the towels over medium-sized round bowls, and tenderly place the dough in the middle. As if it were an infant in the sun, I cover each prospective loaf with the corners. And wait a few hours before baking.

I bake the bread in a Lodge cast iron dutch oven heated to 500 degrees. My towels have never stuck to the dough. My bread towels remind me of all the places I’ve been and the people who’ve gone before. And the bread knows it too.

Happy bread
           Happy bread