I wanted to teach the sous chef how to make pudding this morning. I'll get up and be there for breakfast service at by 6:30, show her how to mix up the milk and sugar, temper the eggs, talk about the other components. Afterward I'll get on the train and be back to Manhattan by 10:30. I'll see my parents for breakfast. I'll get out of the jeans I've worked and slept on a couch in for the last three days.
By 9:00 I had hitched a ride with one of the other managers, who blasted Goo Goo Dolls and kept the windows rolled down and locked. Before the idea of cooking crossed my mind, I was in the kitchen in my sand-filled clogs, picking bits of leftover fritatta from the pass, and slicing myself skinny segments of the banana bread I baked after service two nights ago. "Use a medium pan," I said. "Pot, you mean?" she responded. Sure, pot. Yes. Pots, pans. I forgot there is a difference between the two somehow. I verbalized the recipe, then showed her.
My parents didn't see me in Manhattan until 5:45, after I rode the LIRR uncomfortably asleep. I met them at the hotel they're staying in two blocks from my place, and I almost forgot they're still nearby until I woke up to construction noises over there, on the Bowery or the bridge, and wondered if it woke them up. And then I wondered if they wondered if it wakes me up, too.
I worry they are getting older. They're certainly dog people now - describing behavioral patterns of their tiny thing, her sleep patterns, her affection, her lack of affection. They ask me if they've seen certain TV shows, or if I knew that such and such a show was filmed on the street we just walked by. It's cool I got to cook for blah blah celebrity yesterday--and I wonder if they can tell I am losing my patience.
Don't point, I advise. Your clothes are baggy I think as I see my dad in his oversized t-shirt and carpenter khakis and wish he'd selected denim and one of his signature 3-button henleys. I ask him not to talk about celebrities as we walk into the restaurant where somebody made me the pastry chef, and then later he's quiet, and I can't stop wondering if he's uncomfortable, and then I wonder what other people are thinking. When my parents are here, they aren't my parents. I suddenly feel like their teacher, or like I am obviously another person. I don't want to talk about work, and they keep going on about their ailments. Their stomach, their hip, their back. Their terrible sleep in the tiny hotel bed which is not a queen, they're pretty sure.
My mom and I were at a Broadway show, and I hoped she liked it. I hope she wasn't too worried when we were a few minutes late, I hope that she wasn't worried about how pricey tickets were and if I was having a good time. I was. But I was worried about my dad, who, because of the price, decided to wander around Times Square and wait for us. It's several hours later and I still feel bad, even though I know he was just fine watching touring kids and parents pull bulk priced M&Ms from their containers and palm-cup them into their mouths, even though it "said right there, $12.99 a pound!". I am willing to guess he snuck a few for himself, too. He reported that he indulged in a slice of carrot cake, and because of my weekend and my occupation, I wished that he'd stop eating so many sweets and desserts in a single day.
But, there he was. My dad. Uncertain of this adult woman I am in New York. Telling me, on the subway, within earshot of strangers, that my biological clock is ticking--was he suggesting I have a baby?
I hope tomorrow is better with them. I hope he feels more at ease, and I hope he rested. And my mom, too. I want to prod them for information about stuff that isn't television or tiny puppies. Did Grandma Marilyn ever travel east? Did Grandma Doris ever go west? I want them to see my neighborhood as I do. These are the streets I walk when I call you at night, I tell them. Isn't it so strange that you loved and sheltered me and drove me to high school, and now we are so far away, together, in this place I made a home?
