The Kitchen Blog

Cooking, Gardening, Angst and More. Including Job Search Tales and lifestyle tips about island living.

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User: ChefNeal
Outspoken Podcasting Chef, Sustainability Advocate and Farmer.

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Home » September 2005
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Town again

I'm back on the mainland today--shopping for an event on Sunday.

I was just here last Sunday to teach a cooking class. It's fun but doesn't pay for all my time and with fuel and ferry fares increasing I realized I am paying for the privilage. It used to be the case that I would get 2 or 3 jobs from each class which was worth it--paid advertising. Now, I'm not sure what's going on. Either it is the shite economy and people aren't entertaining on the same levels, or I've lost my magic touch to entrance an audience and make them believe I know what I'm talking about.

Thank God I only have one more of these classes left this year. I don't think I'll renew my series. There is not enough time to teach the techniques and foods I want to, and with only two classes a quarter I can't develop any real connections.
I much prefer teaching smaller, hands on groups rather than 20 people held off at a distance--although that does work.

This past time I tried podcasting the lesson and had someone photograph things for me. It was not my day. The recipes I chose proved to be difficult to execute in the demo kitchen. So I started behind the eightball which led me to screw up the recording. What's worse is I made a complete prat of myself introducing podcasting, etc and doing a "live" show when all I ended up with was 3 hours of un-useable garble. I must not have set up the record and mic right.
To top everything off all the photos came out blurry--what comes from handing someone your camera and saying shoot, auto mode will work fine. Obviously I could have set it up a bit better. I don't even think Photoshop will save these pics.

I'd better get on my bike. I've tons of stops to make and I'm heading way out into the country to see my fav Chiropractor to fix my back. It's massively screwed up on a good day, so I don't know what's going on now. The pain is so bad at times I can't focus on what I'm doing. And forget about dieting and exercise--pain, depression and frustration at being a near cripple are a viscious feedback loop.

The good news is I'm progressing on the cookbook. The bad news is it has absorbed me so much I have become obsessed and stopped doing most everything else--including write and podcast. . . .

Yoiks and away. . . . .

posted by: ChefNeal at September 29, 2005 08:27 | link | comments |
mainland

Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Not

It's not that I hate blogging,
It's not that I don't care.
It's not that I'm completely balding,
Just loosing a bit of hair.

It's not that I have less time,
I really do have more.
It's not that I've grown lazy,
Just can't make it to the door.

See, being jobless is a curse,
it really is a plauge.
It's not that I don't want to work,
I've just a touch of auge.

So you can nag and bitch and moan at me
to move my shiftless ass.
Beaten ego, beaten soul,
No strength to mow the grass.

So I sit at home, ring phone damnit ring,
Staring at this teleporting box.
Out of work, and out of wits
SIckened by the unemployment pox.

posted by: ChefNeal at September 27, 2005 06:30 | link | comments (2) |
poetry, work, life, doggerel

Sunday, September 18, 2005
Alfie (what's it all about)

Firstly--thanks Howard for fixing the tags on the right of the edit screen to be alphabetical again, rather than in order by most used. I was finally getting used to the new system but far rather prefer the alpha system.

Some time in the past few weeks I ran out of words. Or rather around the time of Katrina there were no words to express how I was feeling about everything going on in my own life, in the life of our Nation, the victims of disaster and in the World. I fell in love with certain blogs, and commenting on them but I fell out of love with blogging.

I was at a loss. I had plenty to say, but couldn't fell I could say it. And it wasn't like this was a productive time in other areas of my life either. I wasted far too much time in nothing trying to get my bearings. I still haven't found my course but a breeze is lofting in the sails as we speak. Hopefully they won't luff again for a long time.

There have been so many failures in my life I'd rather not think about them, but at times there is nothing so firm in my mind that I cannot drive them away. It has been almost a year since I was last substantially employed.  I've had a few gigs here and there, big money and small. But nothing to captivate me, to call me away from my misery for longer than a few days or a week or two. Nothing to really even pay the bills. I still look for work but it has become a depressing event. How many rejections can one rationally tolerate in one year? And not really even rejections--just non-responses. No indication of where I have failed or succeeded in the eyes of the evaluator.

Given that I live in Richville where people are still spending money it is a wonder that my own business is not doing better. I am amazed I have been doing hardly any business in cooking, or consulting. Local government is partly to blame for that. I cannot afford to meet their regulations. Even if my business were to tripple I could not afford to upgrade to their standards and pay their taxes. Catering in an island situation doesn't really work--at least from my island. Freelance chefing does work, but the travelling and cost of it often negates the value of a job when people--especially the wealthiest--don't want to pay the going rates.

I have been investigating other opportunities. I am honestly amazed that there is any commerce out here. The leases for business space are 3 times what it is on the mainland. There is a market and a need, but no way to make a profit--and let's face it work is work is work whether you love it or not you need to get paid to live.

So I fill my time with fretting and complaining. Even though I live in "paradise" and "poor baby, it must be torture to live there--it is so beautiful. . . ." This is no tropical paradise. I don't have anything to complain about really , but I do. Catch-22: The Wife wants to be home schooling the girls; I want to be at work tackling problems, facing challenges and meeting people. She works. I try  to retain what is left of my greying hair at the hands of the 5 damsels.

Over on channel two I am writing a cookbook. Trying to maintain my sanity. Trying to recouperate from the Pond work, splitting firewood for the winter, and juggling ennui, anger at my lot in life, and absurd joy. My birthday came and went this week. I hate mentioning it, or even thinking about it. On the day my back was wracked with pain from the aforesaid  labors and The Wife had to work her second job scrubbing the toilets of billionaires, whose shit, for some reason seems to stain worse because they can afford it to. We postponed the joyous day--oh joy--which worked out great. It gave a chance for our eldest, Estrogena, to get a grip on her raging tween emotions and finish a quite heart melting gift for me--a man on any other day of the year she utterly loathes. For a moment late last night, holding her card and gift, the last 12 years played back in my mind. The pain and despair melted away and I knew somehow things would be alright again.

posted by: ChefNeal at September 18, 2005 12:17 | link | comments (1) |
work, life, thoughts, blogging, island life, jobs

Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Rabbit's Revenge

Okay, so why do kid's pets die and rigor in the largest possible sprawl?

Our three oldest girls have rabbits. This has been a thing for some time. At least 4 or 5 years. The bunnies are well cared for, played with and generally have a pretty good rabbit existence in that I have never once tried to cook one.  A few years ago we lost a fourth rabbit, and we've had to put two down at almost the same time. The first rabbit death, by natural causes, had us digging a hole in the rocky soil about the size of an Isuzu Trooper. How can a rabbit in a cardboard box take up so much room?

Yesterday Bean Sprout's rabbit died of what seems to be a viscious bee attack. It was alive and fine in the late morning and by mid-afternoon was the center of a swarm. There was no way we could get anywhere near it. Fortunately the other two rabbits inhabiting the bunny condo-complex were unscathed by the bee-ball. I headed out this morning, very early in the foggy chill of dawn to scope out the nature of todays #1 task. 

There before my eyes was a grim scene. It's going to take a jack-hammer and maybe some dynamite to blast a hole in the island big enough to house the refridgerator sized box this tiny creature is going to take. And I'm not sure I have the stamina or supplies to accomplish this before the funeral at 11:45AM. That's four hours away. I think the orders of sercvice are being printed as I write.  The hired mourners will be arriving soon, and I've got to lay on a lunch for the guests.

Rabbit death is much worse than chicken death. See, chickens are almost 78% feathers. There is really nothing to them.  My wife is convinced that chickens die when ever I leave the island for more than one day.  It's not completely true, but it has happened that a few times a chicken has lost it's perch and needed interment. The size of a hole for a chicken is little bigger than a gallon jug. The wife has nothing to complain about. A shovel and pick, 5 minutes and it's over. No funeral necessary. No grieving owners--"It was my best friend, I loved that chicken. . . .I wanted to play with chicky later today. . . ." Sob.

Mopsy's owner is out picking wildflowers and making final preperations before school.  There are Grandparents to notify and funery clothes to find. "Do I have to wear black?" was a question I heard from the peanut gallery last night as they made plans for the funeral. I am staying clear of it all. The eldest, Estrogena, is being remarkably tender and acting as the Funeral Director.  Beezus has just come in to say she will miss the bunny, when will her cousin be here, where is her breakfast and "The bunny is frozen. . .like a rock. . .how crazy."  Oh to be 5 again.

I'm off to prepare the blasting caps and heavy machinery. If I'm lucky there's a washing machine box in the shed. If I can get all that done, there'll be crustless cucumber sandwiches and Kool-Aid to sooth the distraught, but imaginative souls of my five ladies plus guests. Is it any wonder I'm going bald?

posted by: ChefNeal at September 13, 2005 07:03 | link | comments |
life, pets, death