Saturday syncopation

Saturday syncopation

Saturday syncopation A short story by Katelin Hogard   We got food dying on the pass, guys! I need fucking runners! Kyle, you got four ribeyes, 3 hanger and a cauli. Heard, chef. Billy, I got 1, 2, 3… eight poussin all day and three scallops. Heard! And boys after this pick we’re gonna start plating the party. Yes, chef! Owen! 42, 53, 64, 27, 24 and 82. Heard, chef.   It’s like every single table is full of eighth grade math teachers. Rose for days tonight. My god. Do we still have snapper or has that been 86’d? Of course, ma’am. Yes. No, the cabernet is a blend. Yes, Bordeux is the region. Poussin? That will be a young chicken. Think teenager. Let me get you a new fork, sir. No, I will not forget. Oh, I apologize. Let me get that for you right away.   Billy, poussins. Now! Plating now, chef. Owen, start running. Hands!   Ribeye, one. Hanger, two, Cauli, table. Fuck, what Susan? No we’re not splitting the scallop entree. Because that’s stupid. Bring share plates. Anna, I need hands! Scallops, three. Poussin… fuck. Billy! Poussin. Now! Just go with the scallops. Poussin follows. For fuck sakes, dude. It’s fucking chicken. Lets go! Hands! Poussin’s going to four, five and six. Cody, can you carry three plates tonight? Brandon, hands, now! Scallops, one. Ribeye, two. Snapper, three. No, fuck. Just take two. Billy! Poussin for 24! Now! I need a follow! Stay here. Don’t move. I don’t care. Do not move.   Sure. Yes. Of course. No, dessert is not free. Your birthday was...
Smile

Smile

Smile A short story by Katelin Hogard   “17 adults, six kids.” She rolled her eyes, the shriek of children pulsating into her temples without any remorse. It was Sunday, day five of a 60 hour week at the little supper club that’s been around since before her own father could walk. This meant mediocre steaks, a bar full of drunk’s and a dining room that was empty by 8pm. It was year 15 for her. 15 years of this small supper club in this small town that she always promised herself to get out of but never had. A pregnancy at 18, divorce at 22, another pregnancy at 24 and a foreclosure at 27. This place was the only consistent in her life. “Four shots of polish and a vodka press.” Before the words could come out of his mouth a chair fell over, echoing throughout the whole neighborhood. “Hello…? I’ll need those drinks today.” She looked up and just smiled, trying to suffocate him with her eyes. There was a group that had been drinking since 11am in the bar and a private party in the back. Along with that, all of four tables were full in the dining room with daughters taking their crippled fathers to dinner at the only place familiar to them. The sadness within them exaggerated her own but she understood why they always kept coming back. The steaks that were always overcooked, the carpet that turned a darker tinge of shit grey every year, the familiar faces. Everyone always wants familiar. “I’d like a riesling, Mich Golden Light and a white zin.”...
I am everything that is wrong

I am everything that is wrong

I am everything that is wrong with my generation. I am Millenial that would rather sit in bed all day with a laptop than go to work and make money. I watch porn when I have deadlines. I get dressed only if I’m going to be in contact with other people. I want to do better, but I don’t. I look for the easy way out. I go to the bar with my friends and laugh and drink all night when I have to get up for work in the morning. I spend my days being lazy and my nights doing whatever I want. I know my grandfather is judging me (or I would if I believed in heaven, which I don’t). I am wrong because I know I could be someone great if I wanted to get out of my warm bed on winter mornings. I know I should be someone great, if only I could be convinced that would make me happier than I am here under the covers. I know that I should (could?) be someone great, but when the most important things in my life are my pizza, my computer, and my cat it’s hard to stay motivated. I might die alone. Or I might find a girl that believes all of these things the same as me and we’ll stay in bed together watching Netflix and debating whether or not peanuts are a better snack then popcorn, and then realizing that if we just get Crunch ‘n Munch we can have both. I like to stay in bed and read. Right now I’m reading Yasunari Kawabata’s...
Thank you, mom

Thank you, mom

The first thing I knew about my mom was that she loved the countryside; fields of grass and flowers in the summer and white snow in the winter. The second thing I learned about my mom was that her patience was as long as the Mississippi River, was as wide as the Grand Canyon, was as deep as the Pacific Ocean. But when it was gone it was gone and not coming back. Thank you for loving me when I know it was difficult so do so. I got sick a lot. I would stay home from school. Physically sick, or just sick of all the finger-pointing, teasing classmates that took so much time out of their day to make other kids miserable. Thank you for taking care of me when I was sick, even (or especially) the times I didn’t have a fever. And thank you for taking care of me, but also for not taking care of me when it was time to stand on my own two feet. You knew as well as I should have that you weren’t always going to be there to pick me up, so thank you for giving me two feet to stand on and carry me when you couldn’t. What I never learned about my mom was what she gave up to have me. To make me. To create me practically out of thin air, like magic, like nothing. I never learned that she dropped out of college to give me a life. That she quit her degree in biology to create mine. That I became her life in a...
Winespiring: Bottles of memories

Winespiring: Bottles of memories

As a wine professional, I sample several wines each week.  Sometimes dozens in a single day.  When I taste a wine for work it is rarely with the thought of whether or not I like the wine.  I taste with the future consumer in mind.  I ask, will it go with the menu or is this price point going to deliver what the guest is looking for?  I look, sniff, swirl… all with the mindset of someone else. When you get into wine as a profession it is common to lose your passion for why you came to this inspiring beverage to begin with.  But sometimes, a wine will remind you of a memory, a snapshot of something ethereal and important.  Something forgotten that you find like a single earring under the rug.  A note of petrol that triggers a quick moment of sitting in the backseat of your parent’s car while they pumped gas with the windows open on a warm day.  Or graphite that takes you back to sharp pencils and algebra tests.  A Cabernet that brought back the taste of red currants growing near the front door of my grandmother’s house. I could not tell you what that Cabernet was.  But I can remember details of picking the sour currants and staining my lips with them.  I appreciate when a wine pulls the past out of my distracted brain.  It is like a microscope of smell and taste that connects me with a former time when I collected all the environmental clues that hold consistency in my glass. It is these olfactory moments that inspire me...