A Green-phobic’s Guide to Going Green

I never gave much thought to the color green, but now it seems to have oozed into everything like some weird toe fungus. And I don’t think it’s ever going away. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling a little smothered in the color green, lately. It’s seeped into my house, my office, my car, my shopping cart and even into the people I know and love. Even when I’m not thinking about green, it’s apparently festering away in my subconscious. How else can I explain recently deciding to “go green” by painting my bedroom the most bizarre shade of green I could find? Not only is the green bedroom right next to the red bathroom, it happens to be a hue of organic that clashes with every other color in the universe, including wood floors and white ceilings. The color gurus had assured me that green was a soothing color – perfect for a bedroom because it makes you sleepy. Only what happened was I stayed awake nights trying to figure out what color I could use to cover this hideous shade, getting into epic, involved arguments with myself about why each and every other color and shade would be wrong and trying to figure out when I was going to have a week with nothing to do, and nowhere to go, so I could repaint it. This, generally, made it next to impossible to fall asleep.

I never used to think I was susceptible to crowd mentality. When I thought about the color green at all, baby poop, Brussels sprouts and boogers were what always sprang to mind. Green is that peculiar shade of slimy that grows in my refrigerator. It has to be cleaned out of the pool and mowed every weekend. It stains my clothes and tarnishes my copper. When I turn green, I’m sick; when I eat green apples, ditto. The car I totaled was green (and uninsured). When my husband painted his Harley green, he never rode it again. Then he sold it while I was out shopping one Saturday (not a happy marriage moment). I clearly remember wearing a green dress when I fell down and broke my wrist. Of course, I was also wearing green, high heeled shoes in the middle of January so maybe it wasn’t entirely the fault of the color. But green is the traditional color of simplemindedness, sourness, immaturity, gullibility, water you can’t drink, shower with or swim in. Green olives make me gag, green pickles make me pucker and green boogers dripping down the face of even the cutest baby make me shudder in disgust. It might even, if my personal history is any indication, be the color of stupid, and/or clumsy.

I know a color can’t be spiteful, but green sure seems bent on returning my feelings of distaste. Every time I tried to “go green,” something always seemed to go wrong. Install solar panels? Six months of rain. Buy 26 overpriced “Energy Star” rated windows? Defective. Invest in a pellet stove? Record low gas prices. Cash for Clunkers? Out of money. Paperless billing statements? Computer crash. Plant a garden? Feed the wildlife. (You’d think they’d leave me something.) Even the simplest of things seems to cause a problem. Walk to work? Offend your scent-sensitive co-workers. Finally recycle all the old magazines? Upset the puritanical neighbors. Leave the lights off? Stub your toe, bruise your shin, kill the cat.

But don’t worry. I admit I am a little blue, but I’m not yet going yellow or seeing red when it comes to going green. I’ll keep trying to help save the planet by being as environmentally friendly as green will allow, but I think I’m going to hedge my bets and go brown too. I finally figured out a way to increase my happiness quotient in direct proportion to decreasing my carbon footprint. I plan to stop cooking and eat a lot more chocolate.

Pavlov & Me

Pavlov’s studies on digestion inspired him to study the hows and whys of learning and our capacity to do so. He studied dogs’ reactions to food and then tried to control their responses and reactions to food to understand the learning process. He discovered that an unconditioned stimulus (food in the mouth) caused an unconditioned response (salivation). This happened automatically without the dogs’ thought or consent. He then experimented by using a sound rather than food (something totally unassociated with food) or a conditioned stimulus to produce the salivation response. Because a sound isn’t, in a dogs’ mind, normally connected to receiving food, yet it still triggered the salivation response, the salivating in response to the tone was a conditioned response. My husband reacts in much the same way when I’m cooking. When the smoke alarm goes off, he knows dinner’s ready.

Acquisition, also called initial learning, proves the “stimulus-response” relationship. If Pavlov, discovered, the food was received before the food was given, the dog wouldn’t learn to associate the sound with receiving the food. The timing was also studied to find out how long the dog would be able to associate the food with the tone. Acquisition helps us learn preparation. For instance, if the smoke alarm went off after dinner, instead of before, my husband might mistakenly think I was a good cook.

Pavlov noticed that dogs generalize sounds as well – they might respond the same way to a similar tone as the one he normally used before presenting food. My husband, too, will generalize – sometimes thinking I must be cooking something when he hears fire sirens approaching. He doesn’t, of course, associate the oven timer with food because I usually forget to set the timer.

Pavlov found that extinction occurred if he kept repeating the tone the dogs had come to associate with food while neglecting to provide any food after the tone. The dogs, more and more, “forgot” to associate the tone with food. This happens at my house too, but in reverse. My husband started doing the cooking, and thus the smoke alarm rarely went off so he learned that its high pitched wail didn’t necessarily signal the food was cooked. Pavlov also discovered that extinction didn’t eliminate the conditioned response when he sounded the tone a few hours later, though. The dogs, once again, associated the tone with food, making a spontaneous recovery of what they had previously learned. And, if I do, by some remote chance, during an unforeseen emergency situation, cook something, my husband will either begin listening for the smoke alarm or remove the batteries in anticipation of dinner.

Beer & Bratwurst

Thanks to the media and the internet, and because we all, as a matter of necessity, and perhaps a bit of laziness, make many of our judgments and broad assumptions based only on what we see and hear, it is conceivable that Germans have as many misconceptions about Americans as Americans have about Germans. For instance, not all Germans are tall, blonde, rude Nazis; not all Americans are tall, blonde, obnoxious cowboys. Some are, of course.
With an effort to avoid preconceptions, but based only on friendships with people who were born and raised in Germany, family who lived there for four years, and a two week visit, I can only guess what I would have been like had I been born and raised in Germany. It is an intriguing question. Are Germans and Americans (or any other group of people) so different? Is culture so important or is our humanity the simple deciding factor in our values, morals and beliefs?
Ask an American the question, “what are you?” and they might give you a list of their ancestral origins. I am Irish, Scottish, Canadian, French and American Indian. I am also an American, having been born in Maine and raised in Massachusetts. Ask a German the same question and you will likely get a much shorter answer, accompanied by a slightly puzzled expression – “I am German.” The typical German will have been born and raised not only in the same country, but likely in the same home, where it is possible they will live their whole lives.
Had I been raised with the same family, aside from nurture and nature, I would still be the same person. Or would I? In order to know who we would have been if raised in a different culture, we would first need to know how our current culture affected who we are now. That is a complicated question. How do you separate genetics and personality from culture?
Born in Germany, I might have been an Unna or a Leyna rather than a Linda, and I might have had more than one brother, even though one is more than enough. It is also likely that, had my parents still married each other, they would have gotten married later in life and have been better educated, but have earned less income than a college educated American. They would not only have been able to speak German but English, but possibly even a third or fourth language, and I would have also spoken these languages without ever subjugating verbs and memorizing syntax.
I wouldn’t have moved so many times as a child, and I might even be married with children and still living upstairs from my parents in Germany. And it is probable that I would have gone to college directly after high school. More than likely, reading would still be my favorite hobby. My collection of books, as an American, means I like to read and have some disposable income. As a German, my book collection would mark me as intelligent and middle class.
Growing up in Germany, and living in the same village my ancestors inhabited, I might have known more details about myself and my family. I might have also learned how to cook or knit from my grandmother or great grandmother. Growing up 500 miles away from most of my family in America, I learned to cook by trial and error, and I never
did learn to knit. Of course, growing up in the backyard of most of my extended family, as a German I might not have liked them as well as I like my American extended family that lives much farther away.
As a German, I would probably grocery shop every day, since the food I ate would have fewer preservatives, but I would never shop on Sundays or holidays since all the stores would be closed. I would clean house more often than I do now. I am grateful at this moment to be an American.
I would have traveled more and possibly been more rested, receiving six weeks of mandatory paid vacation in almost every job in Germany, and I wouldn’t worry about healthcare since 40% of my paycheck helped fund a national healthcare system. After serving three years in a low paid apprenticeship job, I would have probably continued working for the same company all my life. As an American, I have changed jobs only four times so far – much lower than the average American.
As a German, I would have taken different things for granted than I do as an American. Castles would not fascinate me, and I might never have known to appreciate the beauty of lace curtains at every window and seemingly endless fields of sunny, yellow mustard flowers. I, too, might think antiques are mere junk and the smallest street in the world would have been just another street to me. I would have known how to taste and enjoy wine without knowing how or where I learned to do so, and I might have missed how enjoyable eating lunch at an outdoor café could be. But as a German, I would believe there was plenty of time to learn and enjoy everything.
As an American (or just as me), I never have enough time for everything. Something is always simmering on the back burner; something always seems to suffer to make time for something else. I am more conscious of trying harder to remember to enjoy the little things and perhaps that is an American trait. But I do tend to take all of my modern conveniences for granted, wondering at the same time, why I don’t have more leisure time because of them.
It’s possible that, as a German I would have developed a taste for beer and bratwurst, been less likely to blush at public nudity, and be a better (or at least less nervous) driver. I would stand closer to people when I spoke to them, even though I wouldn’t necessarily bathe every day.
I would probably smoke or live with a smoker, and I might choose an alcoholic drink from the vending machine at work during my lunch break after having had some liquor in my breakfast coffee. I doubt I would drink as much water as I do now – a glass of water in a restaurant costs extra, and for some reason, tastes as if it was imported directly from the Atlantic Ocean. I would eat a lot more bread and cheese and a lot less junk food, but I would still love pizza. My portion sizes would probably be smaller. My car, assuming I could afford one, would also be smaller. I would be more likely to use public transportation and I probably wouldn’t own a gun, but I would own a bicycle.
It is impossible to say that all Germans are the same as our German friends. It is even impossible to say that all our German friends are alike or that we, as Americans, are so different from them. Cucumbers make Heinz Edlmayer gag, but Wolfgang Schneider loves them. My daughter’s boyfriend, of Irish descent, also hates cucumbers, but my Polish husband would eat them at every meal. Wolfgang and Heinz are both great story tellers and both love their beer, but where Heinz is boisterous and outgoing; Wolfgang is quiet and reserved; much like my outgoing daughter and my reserved self. It is also impossible to say how being German would have changed me as a person, because no matter what my culture and traditions, at the very core, I would just be me. I don’t think of Heinz and Wolfgang as Germans; I think of them as friends and they no longer think every American is a cowboy. What defines us all is not our culture, customs, or beliefs but our outlook on life, our personality and our ability to communicate with others. Eating and drinking together, sharing some laughs, telling stories and a healthy dose of respect and genuine curiosity make it is possible connect with and learn from people of all cultures, even the cucumber haters.

Sprouting Off

Prejudice is dislike of a whole group based on a negative (sometimes isolated) experience with someone or something belonging to that group; or sometimes, for no discernable or logical reason whatsoever. For instance, I am prejudiced against Brussels sprouts because when I was six, my mother put some on my dinner plate and tried to convince me I would love them. I loved Twinkies. This lump of hypothetical food included none of the attributes associated with the possibility of love. They were green. Snot was green. Peas were green (and also mushy and disgusting, but easily hidden in a wadded up napkin). This miniature cabbage head was too hard to mush up and too big to hide in a napkin. I had already formed my negative opinion. I would hate it. Self-fulfilling prophecy or a premature ability to discern the sublime from the revolting, I attempted to taste one. As soon as this globular little bit of greenish matter touched my lips, I gagged and ran for the bathroom. From that day forward, I had an ingrained prejudicial hatred of round green vegetables. We sprout haters are a small, secular group, but you’ll recognize us at dinner. While you’re enjoying the chomping sensation of your little sprout fest, we’re the ones who are subtly fork flicking the little green globs onto the floor and punting them under the table because even the dog won’t eat them.

Many people, more tolerant than I, do not understand my prejudice and have tried to educate and unsuccessfully convert me into a sprout lover. “They’re good for you,” they explain. Fried cockroaches provide protein - also not a valid argument destined to make them any more palatable. “If they’re cooked right, they have a subtle nutty flavor,” I’m told by those I (secretly) refer to as the nutty sprout lovers. Perhaps it is mistrust of my mother’s lack of cooking ability that caused my misplaced hatred of the sprout, but the prejudice is firmly entrenched and probably apt to remain so. Most people develop a real affinity for their prejudices and are likely to balk at being parted from them. I am one of those people.

And not only am I prejudiced against BS, I carry it a step further and discriminate against them too. I actively dislike every one of them based on prior experience with the original one, using several of the discriminatory behaviors to express my displeasure with their existence. I verbally reject them, (no thank you, none for me, please get those things away from me before I hurl). I have even, at times, put down whole platefuls of green vegetables just because they included these mini-cabbages. I also avoid interacting with them. I won’t touch them or look at them in the grocery store. I avert my eyes and pretend they don’t exist. And I would never, ever allow them in my house. Though my hatred of them runs deep, I have never actively discriminated against them by marching in protest, requesting that farmers stop growing them, or campaigning to have them removed from the fresh vegetable category. I don’t lack the conviction; only the time. I have refrained, too from physical attacks and extermination, never threatening them, stomping on them or throwing them against a wall. And I haven’t, nor would I try, to rid the world of all of them by burning or plowing under the fields in which they grow. They’d probably just grow back anyway.

I know Brussels Sprout bigots who don’t discriminate, and I have tried to follow their egalitarian vegetative example by changing my unequal (and perhaps, unfair) treatment of these members of this group into something more socially acceptable. I have even gone so far as to admit that I admire and even love many of the sprout’s relative vegetables – beans, peppers, spinach and even its closest relative – the cabbage – as long as it isn’t cooked. But I still can’t rid myself of the illogical aversion to the sprout.

Institutional discrimination against Brussels sprouts, of course, does not exist, and my vegetable analogy is not meant to make light of individual or group prejudices or discriminations against people, all of which are serious societal problems that can cause far-reaching negative effects on those who harbor them and are harmed by them on a daily basis.

Though it isn’t necessary to be prejudiced to discriminate, discrimination is rooted in prejudice. Perhaps prejudice is the lesser of the two evils because prejudice is while discrimination does.
But if we could “cure” or abolish prejudice, would that necessarily stop discrimination? Individual and group prejudices, while they are hurtful to individuals or groups of people, are not the cause of the most important problems those that the discriminated against face – institutional discrimination. Institutional discrimination is not only often generally accepted without question, it is so firmly imbedded in our society that it is harder not only to eradicate, but sometimes, even to detect.

We know when our white male boss not only laughs at, but believes in the truth of his own jokes about “dumb” women, he is prejudiced. We also know he’s sexist because he represents the dominant majority – those who enjoy and often take for granted as their due, the most rewards for the least amount of effort. We know when he assigns the best tasks and most desirable hours only to men, and the worst and least desirable to women, or when he refuses to hire women at all, that he discriminates. But when our prejudiced, sexist, discriminating boss uses his authority within the rules to promote only men, institutional discrimination might not only allow it, but encourage it.

If, for instance, a promotion requires overnight travel, women who have (or might have) children might be neatly, automatically eliminated without blatantly breaking any anti-discrimination laws. It could, at the very least, discourage some women from applying for the promotion. In our society and within our family institutions, it is still true that women are the major caregivers for children. Biologically, of course, they are the only ones who may carry and breastfeed their children, but widely accepted norms and values still characterize women as being the more loving and nurturing of the two genders. A perfect example of the difference in societal attitudes about mothers and father is illustrated by divorced women who don’t have custody of their children. They are arguably the most harshly judged and deeply scorned group in our society. Though a mother may have selflessly set aside her differences with her ex-husband, deciding, for the children’s benefit, that he will be in a better position to raise them than she, she is rarely given the benefit of the doubt by men or women. She is at the least, judged “selfish,” and at worst, an “uncaring, unfeeling monster who doesn’t deserve to be a mother.” The father with custody of his own children, on the other hand, is often labeled a saint or a hero.

Women are, by their gender and if of child-bearing age, at a distinct disadvantage even now in the corporate world. There are anti-discrimination laws in place to prevent gender based discrimination, but it cannot and does not prevent the reality of motherhood from interfering with women’s careers. This combination of pervasive ageism and sexism centers around the fact that women of certain ages are still perceived as being unable or unwilling to commit fully to their jobs as their loyalties will be necessarily divided or favor kids over career. And sometimes, these women do choose (or give in to the pressures to choose) the kids, putting themselves on the slower career track or halting the train altogether. And this choice maintains the myth and makes it harder for future generations of women to be taken seriously in the business world.
One of the outcomes of this type of institutional discrimination is that in many instances, women, assuming they’re hired over their male counterparts, still earn less than men for doing the same job. This may start within our educational institutions, where many studies have shown girls do not receive the same educations as boys when they are co-educated, especially in math and science. And people who start with a disadvantage almost always end up disadvantaged because fewer advantages require more effort for the same rewards, resulting in, not only a domino, but a snowball effect.

Working harder for less causes stress, which, in turn causes health problems, resulting in more days absent, fewer promotions, more necessary (and expensive) medical care, resulting in less disposable income, and less money equals less power, less respect, fewer better opportunities, which causes more stress, followed by more health problems. In fact, one of the harshest effects caused by institutional gender discrimination might be premature death. According to the American Heart Association, coronary heart disease is now the leading cause of death for American women. This might be, in part, due to the fact that in our society in general, and in the medical profession specifically, many still erroneously believe that “women don’t have heart attacks,” and thus women often fail to recognize the symptoms and/or are treated differently than men by the medical community. Our educational, medical, and family institutions appear to be involved in a discriminatory conspiracy to keep women not only barefoot and pregnant, but poorer and unhealthier than men.

Boiling Brussels sprouts releases a horrible, lingering stench into the air that permeates the entire house for days. Discrimination on an institutional level is just as pervasive, but much more subtle. Most of the time, you can’t smell it or taste it, and, unless you’re looking for it, it’s hard to see. Human beings aren’t vegetables, of course. One Brussels Sprout is much like any other. People, on the other hand, are complicated and individually unique, each with his/her own experiences, thoughts, skills, opinions, desires, needs and, quite likely, a few prejudices. We cannot control how we feel without a great deal of examination, discussion and education (tolerance is a lot of work), but we can change the ways in which we react to those feelings. When, in prejudice, we practice, allow or ignore discrimination on an individual basis, we set the stage for institutional discrimination to persist, escalate, invade and destroy all our lives. If we let our society categorize us like miniature cabbages based on just one shared characteristic, such as gender, perhaps we deserve the categorization because it certainly seems to suggest more of a vegetative state than a human one.

Serving it Up

I'm a big believer in eating out to preserve mental health as well as the state of my clean kitchen. If you are too, here are some helpful hints from the other side of the table:

Originally published: The Advocate June , 2005
Waiters dish out realities of the service industry


“Will you marry me?”
“How did you lose your thumb?”
“Could you send that girl a pink lemonade from me?”
“Can I have your phone number?”
“Have you seen my dentures?”

Along with tips, these are just a few of the tidbits servers at local restaurants have collected from customers over the past few years.
From the other side of the table during recent interviews, Applebee’s servers, Sharon Croshier, Joshua Crawford and Brett Jalbert, along with Zucchini’s employees Todd May and Crystal Czerno, dished up their experiences and a few embarrassing moments in the restaurant business.

The National Restaurant Association estimates that four out of every 10 adults have worked in the restaurant industry at some time during their lives, and 27 percent of adults got their first job experience in a restaurant. The restaurant industry, employing an estimated 12.2 million people, is second only to the government as an employer, according to the association’s Web site, http://www.restaurant.org/.

Crawford, Jalbert and May are full-time college students, working to pay tuition. Crawford and May are business majors and Jalbert is studying structural engineering. They all plan to keep their current jobs on a part time basis after graduating. Croshier, mother of an 11-year-old daughter and 6-year-old triplets, appreciates the flexible schedule and being able to go home in a good mood every day. Czerno, whose mother is also a food server, has worked in the restaurant industry since she started bussing tables at age 13 and hasn’t yet decided on a future career.
None of the five is pursuing a career as a singer. Their most embarrassing moments in their current jobs include singing happy birthday to customers.

“None of us can sing,” May said.

Crawford admitted to a lack of singing abilities as well, but one of his most embarrassing moments came when he took a stab at comedy.

“I went to take a plate from a customer, and he said he wasn’t quite done,” Crawford said. “Holding my hand up with my thumb tucked into my palm, I said, ‘Oh sorry, good thing I didn’t take it. I already lost one of my thumbs.’ And [the customer] said, ‘that’s funny, I lost my thumb ice fishing; how did you lose your thumb?’ He really had lost his thumb, and I felt like the biggest idiot. I excused myself to go get my foot out of my mouth and apologized profusely for the next half hour. At the end of dinner, his wife gave me a hug and said it was the most fun she’d ever had in a restaurant.”

“Josh is a bit of a goofball,” Applebee’s general manager, Billy Greer, said, “but we encourage that here because we want our customers to have fun.”

With over 900,000 eating establishments generating an estimated $476 billion of sales every year, restaurant patrons must be having fun. The National Restaurant Association estimates the average household expenditure for food away from home in 2002 was $910 per person. Food servers typically earn $2.63 per hour.

“It doesn’t sound that bad until you say it out loud,” May said.

“But at least it covers income taxes,” Croshier added.

“Some weeks their paychecks are so little they don’t bother to pick them up,” Greer said.

These minders of the tables, servers of food and sometimes finders of the false teeth that are inadvertently left behind after a meal, work for their tips. Though they never know from one day to the next how much money they will take home, they all agree that the instant feedback of a great tip for doing a good job is an incentive to do their job well – and a bad tip merely motivation to make improvements. The hard part, they said, is that they can’t predict or depend on a certain level of weekly income.

Croshier, who admits she lives for challenges, doesn’t think raising wages and eliminating tips is a good idea, however.

“It’s fun to earn a good tip,” she said. “It’s almost like gambling – waiting on tables is a high, and I love it. It’s up to me to make the money I need.”

Czerno said, “When you’re on your own, living in the real world, and it’s been a slow week, you start to stress and say to yourself, ‘I’d better get my game on quick, rent’s due next week.’”

Jalbert said, “Yesterday, I was ruthlessly, horribly sick, but you can’t get sick. I spent my last $10 yesterday, so I got sleep and took [my medicine} because I needed to work today.”

Crawford added, “Tips are everything. Keeping your chin up after you get a 5-percent tip is hard. You want to ask what you did wrong, but you can’t. You swallow it and go on, and maybe the next customer doubles your tip. I’ve seen people who watch another customer giving the server a bad time and try to make up for it with a bigger tip.”

May agreed that it’s hard to predict a size of a tip.

“You can completely misjudge whether or not they’ll leave a good tip, and for the most part, you can’t tell. I think people tip no matter what you do. Some people are brought up to tip 10 or 15 percent; some people bring in their calculators. Others will throw down a $20 for a $40 meal without giving it a second thought.”

Determining the size of a tip may not be possible, but servers do develop skills in evaluating and anticipating what people need and want, sometimes before they ask for it.

“The biggest part of being a successful server is learning to read faces and body language,” May said.

Czerno said it’s awkward when people come in fighting or having a bad day.

“You try hard to give them their space. I don’t see that he’s yelling at her and she’s crying, and they’re choking down their food. I don’t see that.” But, she added, “If there’s something wrong with the food or service and I don’t see that, please tell us.”

An only child, Crawford admits to little experience with young children. At 6 feet 2 inches tall, he has learned that bending down to eye level of the younger customers and giving them choices too, is appreciated, not only by the kids, but also by their parents.

Croshier said she waits on tables the way she would expect to be waited on. “If I’m eating messy wings, I would like extra napkins. If I’m halfway down on my drink, I would like another one before I have to shake my glass around wondering where you are, and I would never ever forget the silverware. Those little things are important, and you remember them when you do it day in and day out – or at least you should.”

Jalbert said learning to read faces has helped him develop his poker skills, but he admits that remembering to bring silverware to his tables is still a challenge. He and his co-workers laugh and excuse his shortcomings with some good natured teasing.

“He’s tall, so he hits his head on the Tiffany lamps a lot,” Greer laughed.

“They’re cast iron,” Jalbert added. “That hurts.”

Because both restaurants serve alcohol, their servers are also responsible to stop serving an inebriated customer. Applebee’s had an incident with a woman trying to hang from one of its Tiffany lamps after a few too many drinks.

Croshier said, “You can’t allow that. This is a family restaurant, and the other customers don’t want to see that.”

May said that, in his experience, people know when they have had too much and don’t usually get upset with the server when they have to stop serving alcohol.

All five agreed their co-workers and regular customers are their extended families and like any normal family, conflict and occasional clashes occur.

“I can be bossy,” Croshier admitted. “Because I’m a mom, I sometimes treat my co-workers like my kids.”

“We’re human,” Crawford said. “There are sometimes problems with a co-worker, but you don’t bring it into the dining room – you put on a happy face and do your job and we’ll talk about it when your shift is over.”

Greer added, “Everyone has off days and if it’s really bad, there’s a soundproof freezer in the back where you can go to scream and punch a box of French fries.”

Problems with co-workers pale in comparison to the stress of dealing with the public. Customers are allowed to be rude, condescending, demanding or just downright cranky, but dropping drinks on customer heads is never acceptable server behavior. Smiling and being polite no matter what is the golden rule for servers.

According to the serves and managers, customer complaints are almost never about service. Customers hate waiting more than anything, which may be a result of a society geared more and more to instant gratification.

Crawford observed, “One customer can’t see that I’m doing 32 other things right now. They only know their glass is empty, and they’re thirsty.”

Because they’re human, servers do get frustrated with customers. Among their pet peeves are customers who yell, snap their fingers, clap their hands or refuse to make eye contact and ignore them. May summed up the main feeling of every server, with a simple sentence, “I’m here to serve you, but I’m not your servant.”

The worst customer, of course, might be a fellow server. They all regularly go out to eat at different restaurants in the county. Croshier said she’s very critical when she eats at another restaurant, always measuring the service against her own high standards. Crawford said he likes to challenge servers by asking for “weird concoctions.”

Czerno, on the other hand, said “I would love to wait on me….it drives me crazy when I get bad service, but no matter what, I tip 20 to 30 percent because I know what it’s like to work for tips.”

Tired of cooking, weary of washing dishes, or perhaps in celebration of a special occasion, every American has probably graced a restaurant table at least once. Balancing drinks and serving food might seem deceptively easy while perusing a menu from a comfortable seat, but service with a smile is only a small part of the job of a server.

Marketing, memorizing, matchmaking, and mind reading are necessary skills, too.
“Just treat people the way you would want to be treated.” Croshier advised. “And don’t take things too seriously.”

Orange Butterscotch Cookies

Orange Butterscotch Cookies

1 Cup shortening

1 Cup firmly packed brown sugar

½ Cup white sugar

2 teaspoons orange extract

2 eggs

2 ¼ cup flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

1 teaspoon salt

1 8 oz package butterscotch chips

Mix shortening, sugars, extract and eggs. Stir in flour, soda and salt, mixing well. Stir in chips. Drop by teaspoon on greased pan. Bake at 375 for 10-12 minutes.

I made this by accident when I ran out of vanilla extract and it's so simple, even I can't mess it up. Unless I forget to set the timer. In which case, I have burnt butterscotch hockey pucks......

Fear of Food

Experts in the field of psychology tell us that fear is good. Fear is what keeps us from falling off cliffs, being run over by buses, and eating things that will make us sick (at least after the first time). In my case, fear (or its trusty sidekick, loathing) keeps me out of the kitchen altogether.

I don’t really believe I’m afraid of food, but I do detest the idea of food preparation. I don’t know what psychologists would have to say about that, except, probably that I’m using my dislike as a way to hide my fear, that my fear stems from my distaste or that it was all my mother’s fault, which, ironically, could be true since she only enters her kitchen to wash the dishes my father dirties or make herself a cup of tea. And they’d probably ask, “how do you feel about that?” Well, I’m fine with it since there are so many options for eating without cooking and I hardly ever have to do anything but dust the stove.

Don’t get me wrong. I do like to eat. But I’m mostly into satisfying my needs as soon as I realize I have one. Once I realize I’m hungry, preparing and then waiting for food to cook takes far too long. And I can never seem to predict when I’m going to get hungry. Sometimes I wake up hungry. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m lucky to locate the floor at that point, never mind trying to remember that putting a raw egg in the microwave is a really, really bad idea. Once you’d seen the mess that made, you’d probably be scared to go back into your kitchen too.

Cooked Off Commandments

Cooked Off Commandments

1. I am the queen of cooked off, and thou shalt refrain from attempting to acquire supremacy by deliberately scorching, blackening, burning, shrinking or exploding food in direct competition with the legendary cooking disasters of my creation.

2. Thou shalt not cook, bake, broil. braise, baste, boil, fry, simmer, stew, grill, poach, or smoke, if thy can possibly help it.

3. Thou shalt not ever throw away or misplace thy take out menus, but keep them forever sacred and close by.

4. Thou shalt not commit thyself to cookware of any kind, even if it’s on sale or would look swell in thy kitchen.

5. Thou shalt not murder or mutilate food in the guise of making it, even remotely, fit for consumption.

6. Thou shalt not covet they neighbor’s cooking skills.

7. Thou shalt shun development of any culinary talents whatsoever.

8. Thou shalt cultivate and exercise thy excuse making abilities for thy stupendous and everlasting inability to cook.

9. Thou shalt honor thy friends and family members who possess cooking talent.

10. Thou shalt not touch or make use of any cooking implements or appliances at any time for any reason.

11. Remember thy restaurants, and keep thy servers on thy good side by kind manner and generous tip.

12. Thou shalt avoid kitchen areas at all times as to prevent being asked to assist in cooking tasks, which include, but are not limited to stirring, chopping, peeling, separating, pouring, and checking for doneness, but do not include tasting.

13. Edibility is thine enemy – thy shall make no attempts at food preparation lest thy become falsely accused as “cook.”

The Crabs

I’m more crabby than usual lately. Some people try to tell me it's because I've just turned
forty and I'm on the downhill slide. It’s true everything seems to be sliding downhill, while I’m bumbling along behind the rest of my body, vainly trying to catch up with my bad knees and flabby upper arms. Age and gravity could be to blame, I suppose, but I think the real source of my crabbiness is the scientific community that keeps discovering new and improved techniques designed to suck all the joy right out of my life, not to mention my mouth.

I used to think I wanted to live a long and healthy life but the term, “short and sweet” has started to look mighty appealing. Pancakes, for instance, are better in a short stack with sweet dark maple syrup topping. Little kids are usually short and sweet too, except when you want one of their Tootsie Rolls. The short and sweet set seems to get just as crabby as the over 40’s when it comes to sharing chocolate.

Fat in the milk, salmonella in the eggs, nitrates in the bacon and preservatives in the juice have all gotten me out of cooking in the morning; a plus. But mad cows, chickens with colds, and glow in the dark fish were driving me to the edge of veganism and green never was my favorite color. Then I find out there’s arsenic in the air, waste in the water and pesticides in the peaches. Was there anything left that wouldn’t kill me?

I started to make a list of foods that were bad for me but I ran out of paper. The only things that are left are…well, this week, there don’t seem to be any left. Maybe I can eat again next week. The paper started to look pretty appetizing at that point, but I was positive the ink had too many carbs. As soon as someone figures out a way to make paper taste good though, the food police will be snatching that right out of our mouths too.

Remember when food was fun? You celebrated a visit to the grandparents by going to the corner Dairy Queen for a chocolate soft serve. Your birthday was something that you looked forward to because you got to have your cake and lick the bowl too. Now you just hope nobody remembers your birthday by paying for a billboard with a bad 40-foot picture of you and a stupid rhyme on it. And you eat your ice cream by sneaking downstairs and standing in front of the freezer door clutching a spoon while peering over your shoulder, hoping the refrigerator motor won’t start running and wake up the rest of the family.

How I long for the days when a Ring Ding or a Twinkie or a Devil Dog after school was a nutritious snack and Froot Loops and Apple Jacks with whole milk was considered a balanced, nutritious breakfast.

Unless you live on Mars, you can’t escape the food police anymore. They stock your grocery store shelves, fill your pantry and infiltrate the bottom drawer of your desk where you used to hide your candy bars. Worst of all, they’re chattering incessantly inside your head. Now that you know that no matter what you consume, you’ll get fat, develop cancer, go blind or suffer the ill effects of constipation, bloating or gas, you will never again have another guilt free moment of mastication.

What I want to know is why can’t they discover that liver cause stupidity, stress builds better abs and believing everything you hear makes you beautiful? That might be a reason to live longer.

The one good thing is that at the ripe old age of over 40, I finally feel well informed. I get it now. Work equals stress, sugar is unhealthy, sex is dangerous, laughter earns wrinkles, exercise is exhausting, smoking causes disease, drinking causes accidents, and
food causes death. Simple.

No wonder I'm crabby.

Best Apple Crisp Recipe

Baby brother’s apple crisp recipe
4 or 5 cooking apples
1 Tbs. Cinnamon
1/4 Tbs. Nutmeg
1 cup and 2 Tbs. of flour
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup butter or margarine
1 shot of rum

COOKING DIRECTIONS:(DO NOT PREHEAT OVEN) Core and slice apples. Place apples in greased whatever you're going to cook it in. In another bowl combine flour, brown sugar and spices. Add butter or margarine to mixture. Layer crumb mixture on top of apples. Bake in oven at 350 degrees for 35 to 40 minutes or until apples are soft. Drink rum. Cool 20 minutes