Friday, June 03, 2005
Oh. My. God.
I know it's the hormones talking. I know it. But I am in such a foul fucking mood, I want to stomp on someone.
I'd love to take a Paxil and get some pharmaceutical peace flowing through my veins, but I can't: I can't afford it until Monday. Why? Well, because I spent every last dime I had on my visit home (getting a gas-guzzling SUV instead of the compact car I'd reserved didn't help--I spent twice my gas budget just getting there). And then DS woke up yesterday with a fever and I dropped another $60 on the doctor and his script for the ear infection. So when DD woke up this morning with a fever as well, not only did I have to take her to work with me (missing one day was bad enough, skipping today would have been a disaster), but I can't afford to take her to the doctor, either.
When I arrived to work yesterday morning, a sick but spunky DS in tow, I discovered that someone had taken it upon themselves once again to bake some profiteroles. No no, nevermind that I had already baked 4 orders worth (a Wednesday; we rarely sell more than 3). No, they decided they needed more. They needed ELEVEN ORDERS worth. On an average week, that would be enough for about 4 days. Which would be fine if the fucking profiteroles could be stored for 4 days. But no, they have to be thrown away at the end of the night. So 4 days worth of profiteroles into the garbage. One day's worth left in the freezer. And whatdoyaknow, there's a big event on Saturday evening that they'll need my help with, so I won't have time to make another batch tomorrow. Had to make them today. With Sick DD there with me. I arrived to discover that someone had received an order from one of our vendors consisting of an array of spices, a couple of different kinds of oil, some wasabi powder, and 10 pounds of cheese. And they left it all sitting out on my station overnight.
I went to work as quickly as I could while DD was still feeling relatively well (the Ibuprofen worked for about 2 hours). I had an appointment for a massage with the chiropractor at 9:45. I had hoped to be finished with all the day's prep by then, but I couldn't get to the pate au choux in time. Three people were scheduled to arrive at 9:30, but it came and went without a peep. I considered locking up, but naturally the linen people arrived, so I couldn't. Finally, at 9:40, Juan came in. I grabbed DD, who was already sluggish and grumpy, and booked it over to the chiro's office. Ah, the high point of my day: 15 minutes of working the tension out of my neck--my neck had locked up last week and I hadn't been able to turn my head for 6 days, I was in agony!
The tension squeezed out of me, we returned to work to see they were in full swing. By now DD was really out of it. I tucked her in on the couch in our lobby and promised to hurry so we could go home. I busted out the dough as fast as I could, only to discover that someone had made off with Every. Single. One. of my pastry bags. Oh, not really Every One. Just every one that I could use for this project. I could make my own, which would hold enough to make about 5 profiteroles, and paper cones are nearly impossible to refill when you're working with something as sticky as pate au choux, or I could use the huge bag--the one with the hole cut so large that the only tip that fits in it is the huge star tip. You can't make profiteroles with a star tip: the edges will burn before the center is finished. But I did it anyway. I was so fucking pissed off at this point, I almost threw all the dough in the garbage--after all, about 80% of them are going to end up in the garbage anyway, right?
Finally finished, I go get DD, who had been moved to the banquet room where she could sleep in a booth without anyone disturbing her. I had told Chef I'd be back before 7 tonight and headed out. But we were about 3 steps out the door before DD started crying because we'd left her drink of water in the banquet room. I went back in to get it, and Chef stopped me, telling me from across the room, "I'd really prefer it if you'd stay through the lunch rush!" I turned DD toward him so he could see her crying, "She is sick. I have to get her home. I will be back as soon as it is possible."
Of course he's pissed at me now. Fuck it all, let him be pissed.
I know it's the hormones talking. I know it. But I am in such a foul fucking mood, I want to stomp on someone.
I'd love to take a Paxil and get some pharmaceutical peace flowing through my veins, but I can't: I can't afford it until Monday. Why? Well, because I spent every last dime I had on my visit home (getting a gas-guzzling SUV instead of the compact car I'd reserved didn't help--I spent twice my gas budget just getting there). And then DS woke up yesterday with a fever and I dropped another $60 on the doctor and his script for the ear infection. So when DD woke up this morning with a fever as well, not only did I have to take her to work with me (missing one day was bad enough, skipping today would have been a disaster), but I can't afford to take her to the doctor, either.
When I arrived to work yesterday morning, a sick but spunky DS in tow, I discovered that someone had taken it upon themselves once again to bake some profiteroles. No no, nevermind that I had already baked 4 orders worth (a Wednesday; we rarely sell more than 3). No, they decided they needed more. They needed ELEVEN ORDERS worth. On an average week, that would be enough for about 4 days. Which would be fine if the fucking profiteroles could be stored for 4 days. But no, they have to be thrown away at the end of the night. So 4 days worth of profiteroles into the garbage. One day's worth left in the freezer. And whatdoyaknow, there's a big event on Saturday evening that they'll need my help with, so I won't have time to make another batch tomorrow. Had to make them today. With Sick DD there with me. I arrived to discover that someone had received an order from one of our vendors consisting of an array of spices, a couple of different kinds of oil, some wasabi powder, and 10 pounds of cheese. And they left it all sitting out on my station overnight.
I went to work as quickly as I could while DD was still feeling relatively well (the Ibuprofen worked for about 2 hours). I had an appointment for a massage with the chiropractor at 9:45. I had hoped to be finished with all the day's prep by then, but I couldn't get to the pate au choux in time. Three people were scheduled to arrive at 9:30, but it came and went without a peep. I considered locking up, but naturally the linen people arrived, so I couldn't. Finally, at 9:40, Juan came in. I grabbed DD, who was already sluggish and grumpy, and booked it over to the chiro's office. Ah, the high point of my day: 15 minutes of working the tension out of my neck--my neck had locked up last week and I hadn't been able to turn my head for 6 days, I was in agony!
The tension squeezed out of me, we returned to work to see they were in full swing. By now DD was really out of it. I tucked her in on the couch in our lobby and promised to hurry so we could go home. I busted out the dough as fast as I could, only to discover that someone had made off with Every. Single. One. of my pastry bags. Oh, not really Every One. Just every one that I could use for this project. I could make my own, which would hold enough to make about 5 profiteroles, and paper cones are nearly impossible to refill when you're working with something as sticky as pate au choux, or I could use the huge bag--the one with the hole cut so large that the only tip that fits in it is the huge star tip. You can't make profiteroles with a star tip: the edges will burn before the center is finished. But I did it anyway. I was so fucking pissed off at this point, I almost threw all the dough in the garbage--after all, about 80% of them are going to end up in the garbage anyway, right?
Finally finished, I go get DD, who had been moved to the banquet room where she could sleep in a booth without anyone disturbing her. I had told Chef I'd be back before 7 tonight and headed out. But we were about 3 steps out the door before DD started crying because we'd left her drink of water in the banquet room. I went back in to get it, and Chef stopped me, telling me from across the room, "I'd really prefer it if you'd stay through the lunch rush!" I turned DD toward him so he could see her crying, "She is sick. I have to get her home. I will be back as soon as it is possible."
Of course he's pissed at me now. Fuck it all, let him be pissed.
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