I woke up this morning knowing that I was the One who handed a hangover to a few pewny feeling individuals. It was weird. I love the way that behind the bar, more or less completely sober, the crowd is not scary- I don't have panic attacks, I don't feel like I am completely out of place, or ridiculous for being there. I feel confident, and glad to have so much to focus on when things get busy. In fact last night, I felt important; when my supervision was behind the bar with me, it felt like I was some kind of parent- tending to a group of hysterical, sugar high children. "But mo-om! Dad said I could!" and vise-versa. So far, he still does the disciplining. I am working on honing my drunk people instincts so I know when to cut them off and how- after all, I am going to have to be alone in there eventually.
I'm glad the children don't call me in the morning, screaming "DOCTOR! IS THERE NOTHING I CAN TAKE TO RELIEVE THIS BELLY ACHE?" They tipped me really well, so I guess it's the least I can do to answer the phone if they do. I would say, take something to make you sleepy after your drink a gallon of water &/or ginger root, or mint tea and a multi vitimin. I would say take a long nap, and call me in the morning, but not until then! and drink less poison next time you just want to get your buzz and let loose a little.
Watching people's behavior around booze makes me realize that fine line I've been oblivious to- that line between having a good time and taking or doing too much. When under the influence of any drug, be it a noxious substance, a powerful emotion or brain chemical response (like adrenaline), people tend to believe that more is better. We know there is a line, but we don't care, or we want to believe that we can feel better than we already do if we take more.
This makes me appreciate the old school teachings about moderation.
I've been told as often as I am out in public lately, how very "European" I look. One splendid individual even called me "that Russian looking bitch".
I wish someone would enlighten me on how different, visually, people are based on ethnic origins. I mean, I'm not color blind, but all pasty white folks look the same to me.
The Russian reference makes me think of the Baba Yaga stories from Clarissa Estes's Women Who Run With The Wolves, but I assume that not all Russian women look like the beautiful child devouring, cauldron riding, house with chicken legs living in old Crone. Do you see the resemblance?
Threw in bay leaves, a splash of apple cider vinegar, some wine, some various spices, carrot, onion and pepper.
It was delicious and falling apart by four thirty, and there was a flavorful broth in the dish. I can't pass up an opportunity to make several meals from one, so I let the roast cool and ripped off a chunk for stroganoff tomorrow, and chopped up the rest for soup tonight.
Into the broth and beef I added some bean and lentil mix, vegetable juice, some more carrot and onion, some broken up linguine, and I couldn't bring myself to throw away the beautiful carrot tops, so I chopped them up and threw them in! Dried onion, ground mustard, and a smoked chipotle chilli powder seasoned my soup.
The bread is getting stale so I'll enjoy ripping off large chunks and dipping in tonight!
Note: I shouldn't have used dried (unsoaked) beans. I know better. Now I should wait to eat till they are cooked, but there's just no way I'm coming home from cat sitting Willie Nelson and chasing Maggie all over that compound in Oysterville without a ravenous appetite.
And I will leave you with this fun song. A new find and Fave!
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