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The restaurant business is difficult. Long hours, slim profit margins, physically demanding work…you really have to love it, because it requires dedication and toil. It’s also really easy to screw up.

I am not a food snob. I’m willing to overlook a lot when I go to a restaurant. If service is slow, maybe it’s because they’re understaffed that evening. If I ordered brown rice and got white rice, I’m not going to send it back. If the cup of tea I requested never arrives, I’ll be okay. It’s all in how you set your expectations; I try to be realistic with mine and it saves me useless frustration.

Thus, when my friends raved about Pasta Freska, a small Italian ristorante down on Westlake in Seattle–the food is crazy good, they told me, and the way Chef Mike runs the place is so unusual; they were all sure I’d love the place–I took their reviews with a dash of salt.

In my experience, small “unusual” restaurants run by “Chef” so-and-so are a gamble, so in order to avoid disappointment I consciously did two things: opened my wallet, and dropped my expectations to the floor.

Good thing.

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Checking the Pulse

SFC's Little Men by Warren GoodrichWhen I was a child, by far the worst verdict my parents could lower upon my head was the dreaded, “We’re very disappointed in you.” Crushing, positively crushing.

So, you’ll understand when I say: I hate disappointing people.

I bring this up because, somewhere in the past week or so, this blog passed 400 subscribers and, frankly, I expect some of you are disappointed. Like the sports guy who decided to follow this blog after my recent Superbowl-related post. Or the “community of web developers” who signed up after my latest rant against the Agile methodology. While I appreciate the vote of confidence these readers bestowed, I know that not too many of my posts are going to be in their bailiwick.

I know for a fact that 400 subscribers are not reading every post, but that’s to be expected. We are absolutely inundated with material these days–television, movies, books, magazines, articles, web-posts, blogs–much more than we can possibly ingest, and thus, choices must be made. Still, I enjoy knowing that my writing has affected 400 people strongly enough that they took the time to stop, read, evaluate, and click “Follow.”

Four hundred may not sound like a lot–a friend of mine has over 14,000 followers on Twitter. Fourteen thousand. That’s about half the population of the town where I grew up.–but 400 is a sizable number for me. I don’t market myself well (or at all). I don’t try to be controversial, and I usually eschew topics that may be overly political. As a result, 400 is a good number, as it has outpaced every other venue (Facebook, Twitter, etc.).

For those of you who have read this far, I really do appreciate it. For those of you who read regularly, my humble gratitude. Every Like, Follow, and Comment you all leave here represents a positive interaction with a reader, and for them all, I thank you most sincerely. They mean a lot.

So, once again, here’s a poll for you to tell me what it is you want to read here. I’ve opened it up for you to add your own choices, should there be a specific topic you want to see me address.

Thanks again,

k

Yes? I'm Listening.

Midnight Drear

PiazzaMy brain writhes through dark hours

Sheds dreams like snakeskin

Leaves papered husks of unrealized wishes

Draped across the curtain rod

Rustling in the open-windowed breeze

 

F-Bombing Seattle

SeahawkSeattle is quiet.

A little too quiet.

Is everyone feeling what I’m feeling? I’m not sure.

For the last fortnight, Seattle has been consumed by a building storm, a hurricane of Superbowl hype that brought with it an unexpected storm-surge of ad urbem invective.

In sports, trash talk comes with the territory. Even a sports-gene deficient bookworm like me knows that every rivalry includes some good-natured ribbing. We tease. We poke fun. It’s always done with a wink or an elbow to the ribs, and when it’s all over, the winner is lauded and the loser is congratulated for a good contest.

That isn’t what happened. Continue Reading »

Redefining Teams

I guess I complain about meetings a lot.

This morning, NPR’s Yuki Noguchi ran a piece on the overuse and misuse of meetings in Corporate America, and several of my friends immediately forwarded the link to me.

Yeah. I complain about meetings. A lot.

But then, I have a lot of meetings about which to complain. Continue Reading »

Last night, after watching Amour (2012), I was positively knackered.

I’d just spent two hours reeling from the blows inflicted by this unflinching story of an elderly couple dealing with the inevitable. I’d wept sharp, stinging tears of grief and had the air punched from my lungs. It left me weakened by a powerful catharsis, spent of all emotional reserves. I was a raw, flayed thing.

And I was exceedingly glad of it all.

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Yer Killin Me

1962 TR3B

There have been times in my life–and I bet in yours, too–when I’ve found myself in a While-You’re-Up death spiral.

You know…you rise from the sofa during a commercial break and before you’ve had a chance to lock your knees your Significant Other says, “While you’re up, would you mind…?” That dot-dot-dot is always a small thing, like getting a can of soda, something you can’t legitimately refuse, not in polite society, and so you agree, except when you get to the kitchen, you find that there isn’t any soda in the fridge. You go to the pantry and find another pack of soda, only it’s warm. A quick peek in the freezer shows that you’re also out of ice. So you go down to the garage and get a bag of ice from the deep-freeze. Then, back upstairs, you bring back a can of soda and a glass of ice, only to be met with a smile and a “And maybe some chips? While you’re up?”

These are the moments that test marriages.

An example: one Thanksgiving, not too long ago, I got While-You’re-Upped from simply attending the feast to acting as sous chef to doing most of the cooking to actually setting the entire menu and creating the shopping list. While-You’re-Up-ism is a combination of slippery slopes and thin-edged wedges, often difficult to identify until you’re already hip-deep in trouble.

Such has been our experience with Pepper, the classic 1962 Triumph TR3-B we purchased a little over a year ago.

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