the bread order
"Has everyone in the world heard of it except me?" he asked. "I don't think so," I said. "Just everyone in this room."
Hi friends. Nice to see you here.
I spent the last evening of 2021 at home with my husband and child. All of us went to bed without protest, not to mention earlier than usual. Truthfully, once Blake and I were left to our own and ate up the charcuterie board and watched Amy Schneider crush at Jeopardy! for the 22nd time, we went to bed. We were snoring by 10 PM. It was that, or submit to the temptation of waking our baby so he could "party" with us. In retrospect, it was a perfect night.
So, in these days where it remains unfeasible to tour, I've been writing music and stories while at home to stave off neurological atrophy. The music will turn into an album, but the stories have been hitherto unshared. With that in mind, my newsletter has moved from MailChimp to Substack. If you want to keep receiving the normal monthly-ish offering, you get that on the free plan. But Substack allows me to have a paid subscription option and with that you’ll get more frequency – a little story once a week. It’s an exciting change for me to shift my attention from social media to Substack! The platform is simpler with less noise and distraction and what can I say? Baby Trip needs onesies and diapers and heat.
And if you’re an “all in” kind of BP supporter, you can do a Storm Chaser subscription. If that’s your thing, I’ll arrange for a 30 minute Zoom call with you and sing some songs.
Thanks for being here with me. It’s a privilege to have your time. And now, a story!
~ 6 minute read
It was my second appointment with the counselor. We'd hit it off in our first meeting and a follow-up was booked for two weeks later. This time I hadn't cried on the walk to the office. This time I hadn't just had an argument with Blake. This time I hadn't muttered the most minimal of goodbyes before I stepped out the door. This time I'd attended my writing group by Zoom for 90 minutes and I was feeling happy. Light. I walked to the office and felt the sun on my face — not at all like the rainy day two weeks prior. I took the familiar coronavirus protocol questions in stride and waited in the same chair I had waited in two weeks before.
The first time I came to the office I noted almost immediately that a sheet of white paper had been taped to the receptionist's window. It had what I assumed were the staff's names written in bubble letters on it. There were plants scattered here and there and all seemed in good health. There were sayings on the wall spelled out in vinyl letters. They said something inspirational. At least I imagine it was... I didn't take much notice given the poor mood I was in. Overall, the space was unconcerned with being trendy, opting for welcoming and comfortable but on a budget. A provincial budget. More than anything, I remember feeling that this was a space occupied by women. Women who specialize in care-giving.
Both visits were punctuated by a man entering the space. He became the focal point of attention each time. On my first visit he wheeled a tote to some short shelves and chatted with the two female staff on either side of him. He retrieved bread from the tote and stacked it indiscriminately.
"What was that bread called again?" he said.
"Focaccia," answered the woman behind the front desk.
"Focaccia," he struggled to repeat. Then, with some awe he added, "Never heard of it."
The woman seated at a folding table who administered my COVID screening observed and smiled a bit. One of her legs was tucked under her in a way that made her appear both casual and youthful. He turned to her.
"Have you heard of it?"
"Yes," she said, somewhat amused. He caught her reaction. Now it was a game. I noted this time that he hadn't ventured to say the word focaccia again. He turned to me. "Have you heard of it?" I was a bit surprised to be included and immediately grateful for my mask. I was hopeful that it and smiling eyes might belie my woefulness.
I responded. "Yes. I have. I used to make it."
"Oh! Are you a baker?"
"Yes. Well, no. Not as a profession. I just like to cook."
"Has everyone in the world heard of it except me?"
"I don't think so," I said. "Just everyone in this room."
"That was generous," added the woman at the make-shift desk. I couldn't decipher if she'd changed her mind about being amused or whether she thought my small allowance for him was indeed kind. If it was the latter, she couldn't have known that my response was entirely selfish. I was starved for warmth. Between the weather, the argument, my unemployment and my depression, I was desperate for connection, even if I had to manufacture it with my own clumsy hands.
The scene broke up when I was called in for my appointment. I dumped my fears and anxieties out in no particular order. I was frantic for this qualified stranger to categorize and shelve them so that I could go home, no longer stooped by their weight.
And now here I was, again. I sat in the same waiting room chair placed between a hallway and a doorway. It wasn't in a grouping of chairs where others might join me. No, not in this day and age. I was screened by a different woman, I think. It's hard to tell with masks. But I was feeling the fine after effects of the writing group. Then, as before, into the room came a man. He looked out the window and mentioned taking his lunch to the woman who did my COVID screening. They chatted idly. They seemed mindful not to take up too much of one another’s space.
"Are you the man who was here when I visited two weeks ago and who had just learned what focaccia bread was?" I said.
"Yes! That's me!" He spoke without a shred of self-consciousness for having been identified as such.
"I got a lot of enjoyment out of that. Thank you."
"Well, yeah, I didn't know. It's flat, right?"
"Yes," I nodded.
"Like this!" he replied, pulling out a long baguette and holding it up triumphantly.
"No. That's a baguette," I countered. Like the placement of the chair, I suddenly felt conspicuous. All eyes had swung our way to observe us and our engagement.
"Hmmm. A what?"
"A baguette."
"Oh." He rooted through various clear plastic bags of bread. "This!" he exclaimed, though less enthusiastically than the last time.
"Yep. That's focaccia. You've probably eaten it before. In an appetizer." He took that in.
"Yeah," said the woman behind the desk, "you just didn't know it."
"It's likely." I added, "I've used it for bruschetta... instead of a baguette." His stillness conveyed that he had no idea what I was talking about. "Bruschetta is an appetizer. You make the bread into crostinis, like tiny pieces of toast. Then put – oh, here's another new one for you – you put pico de gallo on the bruschetta. Pico de gallo is a mix of tomatoes, onions and fresh herbs all mixed up."
Blank stare.
"Are you Italian or something?" he said.
"No. Just half Ukrainian. But I like to cook."
"I guess I'm just not very adventurous," was his reply. "I go to restaurants and I just order the same things."
"I waitressed a lot. I learned most of what I know about food that way. But it's not always comfortable. When you're dating one of the cooks and he laughs at you for eating things the wrong way... well, it's embarrassing." I paused. "Do you eat sushi?"
"I've heard of it." he responded, secure in his answer.
"Well, there are these beans. They look like pea pods, but they're not peas. And you don't eat the shell. The shell's too fibrous. You just kinda squeeze the beans out with your mouth and leave the pod. Damn. I can't think of what they're called."
"Edamame," the screening woman offered.
"Right," I replied, now certain that everyone had stock in this conversation. Whether she wanted to be involved or not, she was. And he was genuinely curious about these crazy beans. "Edamame," I continued. "Yeah. I ate the skins of those in front of an old boyfriend who was a cook and he laughed at me in the restaurant. I felt like a bumpkin1."
Just then my counselor came into the room from a glass door. Her energy was bursting. I said hello to her and bid farewell to the room as I stood. As she and I walked into a children's playroom where we would hold our follow-up appointment she apologized for multiple things almost at once. "I'm sorry I'm late. I have one unscheduled 30 minutes in my day, so guess when they organize a meeting?"
"It's ok. I was having a fun conversation with a man about bread and whatnot. He's just learned what focaccia bread is."
"Oh?" she said without lifting her eyes from her laptop. "That's Brian. Sounds about right. He's only been doing the bread order for 15 years."
In writing this I've realized what a patchwork of cultures I referenced while trying to appear knowledgeable. Just wanted to recognize that and fully embrace my continued status as a bumpkin.