-When is the part-time thing happening?, this sous chef asked.

I told him I had to wait until the end of the month to hear back from the powers above.

-You must feel special. They’ve never done anything like that for anyone before.

Yeah, special, I said, rolling my eyes.

I respect this sous chef a lot. He cares about the job he does, and in this very stressful environment, he does it extremely well. He treats everyone in the kitchen fairly, and is very level headed, despite the impossible number of coffees that he drinks and cigarettes he smokes. He buys Gatorade for the boys, and watermelon for me. Away from work, he also has twin baby girls and probably the world’s most understanding wife. How he juggles all this, is, really beyond me.

To tell you the truth, the one thing I really feel is maybe a bit guilty. Guilty that I can feel the tiredness scratching the back of my eyes. The loop of the blue striped apron hangs like a noose around the neck. Call it a derivative of Stockholm syndrome or whatever, but I still love my job, and can’t imagine ever doing anything else. Probably my one big problem is that I’m not good at the whole juggling thing.

This week, I will be mostly :

1 Listening to Heart by Stars
2 Reading The Time Traveller’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
3 Missing the boy, who flies to Vegas soon, “for work”

Last week, I finished reading a book. The first one in ages. I realised a long time ago, that one of the sad things about growing up is that I no longer have time to lounge around all Summer, sucking down chocolate Paddle Pops, surrounded by a sky-high stack of books. It was through many youthful (and pallid) years of avoiding the hot sun and the tyrannies of a sandy beach, that I discovered Hunter S. Thompson’s letters, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and Neil Gaiman’s Sandman (ironic, isn’t it) stories.

In fact, these days, I kind of wonder what the 14 year old version of me, would think of myself now. Would I be disappointed to discover that I’m not that veterinarian or forensic scientist?

I think the 32 year old me will probably say to the 14 year old : Listen, the first thing you need to know, is that Chad Allen is never going to reply to your fan letter, and not just because it turns out that he’s gay. Secondly, life, is going to be nothing like you expected it to be. Disappointingly to your parents, you will not have “Dr.” in front of your name, nor will you sport a fancy ring on your finger or 2.5 kids at your hip.

No, it’s actually going to be even better. You will go to University and even though you will end up doing nothing related to your resulting degree, you will relish the experience. You will make friends there that you still count as some of your closest to this day. In your first year, you will also get your first computer account and through it you will meet even more new people, including one guy who will start out as a friend and eventually turn into someone who means so much more to you.

Today, he will come home from work and you will have soy glazed pork with slaw and potato fritters, followed by a frozen chocolate mousse cake. Whatever happens after that, and the day after, doesn’t matter, because it will be just as wonderful and unexpected as the days have been so far.

So, breathe, relax. It’ll turn out okay. Although, maybe you might want to learn how to juggle a little bit..

(Frozen chocolate mousse cake : chocolate sauce, sour cherries (compote and sorbet), peanut butter powder, peanut and banana tuille)

“I wound up my clockwork sufficiently to tick out onto the waking streets and buzz a newspaper off the sleep-deprived vendor. Like the rest of the poor in sleep of the coming twenty-first century he was a money junkie, trading shut-eye for a tight fist. Nobody can afford to sleep anymore. Do you realise how much it costs?”
–Disappearance I, Jeanette Winterson

I love my sleep. Love the ritual of clean teeth, the gurgle of gargled water down the drain pipe. The shedding of clothing, as if removing them meant you were rid of the day’s troubles and worries. Slipping between sheets; the tangle of limbs. I don’t often get enough sleep, despite the fact I don’t think I ask for much. Give me at least six hours, I say. Usually I average 4 1/2 during my working week.

“And then I was offered the job of a particle in factory physics. I was offered the job of an electron in an office atom. I was offered the job of a frequency for a radio station. People told me I could easily make it as a ray in a ray gun. What’s the matter with you, don’t you want to do well? I wanted to be a beach bum and work on my wave function. I have always loved the sea.”
–Disappearance I, Jeanette Winterson

The other day, I woke up with a start. Maybe my alarm clock didn’t go off. Maybe I was so sleepy, I turned it off without realising. Or maybe I totally forgot to set it to begin with. Either way, I started the day with a run. Running down the street to the train station. Running to catch a bus. Running, past skyscrapers and concrete empires, threaded between blue skies I don’t have time to glance at. Running, to catch up with the rest of my day. At the end of it, I ran all the way home.

“I know we are walking home by a roundabout route, but after I bought my paper this morning I decided to go to the park and feed the rubber ducks. The real ducks died because so many people were feeding them in the new twenty-four hour working day that not a drake nor a duck had a moment to itself. Some sank under the weight of soggy bread, others exploded. The rubber variety are much more adaptable.”
–Disappearance I, Jeanette Winterson

You know when you’re so out of breath that you can’t whistle? Sometimes I feel so exhausted, that this endless cycle week after week, makes me feel like an exploded duck, weighed down by so much expectation. Expectation of bouyancy. Of being able to fly. At the end of the road, when there’s nothing left of me but a funereal bill, will anyone remember what the duck looked like?

“I flung myself down and watched the clouds bumping each other, the break and mend of a morning sky. My body was relaxed and the ordered chords of my thinking mind began to separate into component notes, to reply themselves without effort, without purpose, trailing into.. sleep.”
–Disappearance I, Jeanette Winterson

Sleep restores me. When he’s by my side, that calm and gently breathing B, shoulders rising and falling, his warmth envelops me like no blanket can. I like turning over, knowing he’s there. That sleepy smile, when he realises I’m staring. The profferred shoulder, then snuggled like a spoon against custard.

I realise life is all about what you make of it. Make your own bed, as they say, and lie in it. One day I hope to achieve that magical balance between life and work. When I finally disappear, I hope it will be on my own terms. In the meantime, I continue to push myself. Push out of bed, push to the train station, push through the day and at the end of it, push home to see the B.

Baked Mandarin Custard :
(serves 2)

80g strained mandarin juice (approximately the juice of 1 honey murcott mandarin)
zest of 1 mandarin
50g caster sugar
3 egg yolks
180g double cream
1/4 teaspoon spices of choice (optional)^*

Preheat the oven to 150’C.

Whisk the sugar, zest and juice together to dissolve the sugar. Add the yolks, spices, then the cream, whisking only just to combine. Strain the mixture, pressing to extract any flavoursome oils from the zest and pour into two ramekins. Bake, covered with foil, in a water bath for 25-30 minutes or until the custard is only wobbling slightly.

Allow to cool in water bath, then chill for a couple of hours or overnight, before serving.

(^* I spiced this custard with cinnamon and cardamom, in honour of Anita’s theme for this month’s SHF : Spices! The custard was served with mandarin and hazelnut sable soldiers.)