Ecstatic Observer

Shift perspective to the perspective of a 5 year old. The perspective of a perceptive 5 year old who knows how to fly. Not like a superhero. No fist punching through the air. More like floating. 2-3 feet off the ground, max. 5 year old forced perspective on high alert.
Shift perspective.

Pink flamingos bending into pink flowers, popping out of dull drippy fog.
Shadows sharp at a particular time of year, month, day, hour, minute, second.

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Order to Chaos—A Tiny Rant About Why Cooks (and Writers) Mmmmmmmight Be Crazy

This piece was previously published on shakeyourcookie.com, my weird blog, on 1/9/2018 with the title “Order to Chaos—A Tiny Rant About Why Cooks Mmmmmmmight Be Crazy.” I got super bored with it being a food blog so, I started to tell stories about life and cooking and other stuff so that I would start posting again and so it would be fun to write. It’s so much more fun.

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*Disclaimer: not all cooks are crazy. that’s not true. all cooks are batshit*

It shouldn’t come as a huge surprise that most professional cooks are a fairly broken bunch of folks.
One could even say “mentally ill” if one was to forgo diplomacy. Having worked in kitchens for many years and living with myself for even more, I cannot debate this theory. I am, however, going to try to defend it. Or, at least myself.

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On Writing Through The Pain—Literally

Here’s a dispatch from smack dab in the middle of 4 years of chronic pain past self me. I somehow, some which way, wrote it, prolly while eating my weight in chocolate pudding and coming down off of some super sweet ass nerve blocker whose side effects included:

  • Twitching
  • Slapping my mom’s hand out of mouth
  • There’s a murderer outside waiting for me to fall to sleep and then stab me to death so I def should not go to sleep
  • The eating and eating of chocolate pudding
  • More nerve pain
  • Suicidal thoughts
  • Screaming in my sleep
  • SO SO many other things

I’ve since had a major miracle spinal surgery that worked.
It worked!!!!!
So, dry your tears and read about the abject terror that is Chronic Nerve Pain.

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Writing While Weird

I’m defective. I can’t figure out if I was born this way or if it was a conscious decision. At five years old, I remember noticing other kids getting super dupes grossed out by spinach and deciding that I would love spinach. Around the time that I reached puberty, I remember deciding that I, absolutely and without a doubt, should not and would not get married (ever) or have children. I remember thinking that I could actually fly before I hit puberty.  At 16, I remember astral projecting across my tiny town. I’ve never worked in an office. I’m a female line cook, in a sea of really really male line cooks. I willfully ignore grammar in favor of rhythm. I try to find the “hard way” and I call it the “scenic route.” I don’t know how I got here. I’m 43 and my mind still works this way.

I’m afraid of this defective nature. I don’t understand why I am “other.” My point of view, my poetry, my ideas, my stand up, my art, my love letters are all defective.

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