So terrifically hard to wrap my mind around the young man that he has instantly become. All the parenting cliches come to mind. How fast the years go and you turn around and there are these people where babies used to be. Awfully true. He is long and lean, with a penchant for hiding games. He loves to disappear in plain sight. Putting his head up the back of my shirt and staying behind me, directing me to ask, "Where's Duncan?" I'll say, "I'm not sure where he is, I know he was just here and now I just feel this strange lump on my back and some icy cold hands every now and again."
If I get distracted while his head is up the back of my shirt, I'll hear a gentle reminder, "Say, 'Where's Duncan?'". And it will begin again, until I finally 'realize' that he was right here all along. I'll wrestle him to the sofa, much maniacal laughter, and go back to cooking. Soon I'll feel a head up the back of my shirt.
"Say, 'Where's Duncan?'"
In my lesser, more impatient moments I'll say something like, "Dunc look, I'm trying to cook here." He'll say, "Aw," and go to the sofa and read a book. I'll cook.
In my late night worry times, as I'm lying on my side of the bed, holding the radio to my ear and tuning instantly away from any advertisements that mention "foreclosure", I will suddenly see him behind my closed eyes and wince because I don't know what is going to happen with his future, because the ship certainly seems to be sinking awfully fast and he is blissfully unaware with a Dad who is all too aware.
Should I try to get a job at Target? Whole Foods? Home Depot? We're now at the point that these are the questions. No saviour acting job is appearing, in fact the situation only seems to be getting much, much worse.
Over Christmas, before we went to Missouri, I contacted a chef friend of mine, Louis who I had met through the internet. I sent him a message offering my sous services. He wrote back that he might have something the next week.
"Well, that was easy." I thought.
The next day, it was a Saturday, I got a call on my voice mail from Louis saying that the job he had next week had fallen through but I would be getting a call from another man, Jono who needed some help putting together a party the next day on Sunday. He needed someone to serve. Not cook anything, serve.
"Well, now I did it." I thought.
I can't remember what specific show biz disappointment I was reeling from that particular week, but an enormous battle of my internal ego immediately ensued.
I hadn't worked a catering job or a restaurant position since 1997. I had worked in restaurants and catering in New York off and on since I'd moved there and went to NYU in 1983. The story I had created went like this ( you might find it a familiar one): I would work my bottom off in any job I could in New York and take any theater job I could find until I eventually made my way as an actor and left the restaurants, light construction and catering jobs behind only to be resurrected as quaint stories (preferably on talk shows) of salad days employment. I would marvel at how hard I worked then and how it formed my character and enhanced the sweetness my success.
The fact that I had spent 13 years away from such employment made me think, certainly during those "six figure Broadway/tour - let's buy a house!" years, that the story was undeniably true. Because we were living it.
So there I was wandering around mid December South Orange, now several messages on my voice mail asking me to call Jono immediately because he needed to know if I could work the party and me completely unable to return the call and reverse the story that I had clung to since I made the plan on or about 1976.
There was a roaring in my ears. I found myself in that little children's park near the train station. A man in an overcoat walked up to the steel xylophone thingy and produced some mallets. He played a beautiful improvised melody. I returned the call.
There was nothing in my voice that betrayed the emotional distress I was going through.
I said, "Sure I can help you out."
I got the address, asked him what I should wear... etc.
I walked back home. I had something resembling resolve. I hadn't written this part of the life story in my mind, but here we were. The fact that I was taking the job was less painful than the paralysis of not returning the call.
I went and worked the party. I sliced up the ham and arranged the buffet table for Jono and his wife Elizabeth, movie and television producers who owned a brownstone in Brooklyn. I set up the bar and stationed myself behind it when the guests arrived.
At one point, one of the children at the party asked if she could have a soda. I said "Sure."
Then she said, "I want water instead."
I said, "Sure."
"You're the servant," she said,
I said, "Yes I am."
I took a break and locked myself in Jono's bathroom. I looked in the mirror. I remembered when I worked at Blue Water Grill in 1996/97. I was the oldest on the staff then at 31. One of the other waiters affectionately nicknamed me "Papa." I looked at my 44 year old self in the mirror.
I thought about Anthony Hopkins in that movie... I can never remember the title, the "I'm a butler my whole life and even though Emma Thompson loves me, I can't do anything about it" movie... Remains of the Day! Thank you.
I cleaned up after the folks had eaten and drunk their fill, accepted Jono's money and a gift of a bag of leftover meatballs, made my way from Brooklyn back to Penn Station and caught a late train home.
Jono called me to let me know that he had recommended me for another party; a brunch birthday for a friend of his on the upper west side. I was to call Jeffrey.
I called Jeffrey and worked the party. Jeffrey turned out to be Jeffrey Lane the writer/producer who I first met on The Day and Nights of Molly Dodd where I had a recurring role and he was the writer in 1989. I ran into Jeffrey again because he was the book writer of Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. We shared cocktails and conversation at the opening party in Los Angeles when I did the tour in 2006/7. And now here I was serving his coffee and arranging his salmon for his guests.
I swept the floor of his kitchen in his magnificent Manhattan 3 bedroom on Riverside drive and did the dishes when the party was over. He gave me some cash and I took the train home.
It hadn't taken long for my worst fear in taking these jobs to materialize. I had hoped to remain exquisitely anonymous during my foray back into private catering, and it was blown on the second job. The business knew. Show business knew.
Late one night Nicole and I talk. Trying to figure out what to do. She's been attempting to find us health insurance. Going to the Medicaid office in Newark with the children in tow and presenting our papers, being told after three three hour visits that she's in the wrong office and directed to the other office, New Jersey Family Care. She starts over again and delays 5 month old Shaw's vaccinations until we can arrange some kind of coverage.
She's also trying to modify our mortgage with the bank, we don't qualify for the federal programs because it's an independent bank not backed by Fannie Mae or Freddie Mac. They do offer some moderate modification and we are in negotiations.
She is exhausted with worry. So am I. We are swollen with it. We talk about it in our bedroom as the kids sleep. It's not just the hours in the welfare office or the endless phone calls to the bank, the fruitless auditions, those are just tasks. It's the worry that we're attaching to those tasks and the fact that we're not taking equal parts joy in the moments around us, that's what's hurting us. We're not welcoming happiness. Not singing enough, dancing enough. We're not taking of what's right in front of us.
We come to the conclusion that if this "crisis" robs us of our happiness we lose. If it's really just about holding on to this overpriced old house, it's just a house and it's not worth it. That there will always be a crisis no matter what the outcome of the present one is and our job is not to "lose it" but to keep inviting the life that is waiting for us to appear. If we were rich, we'd never get to learn this lesson.
Let's find a way to love this terrible time. Then we'll win. And somehow, in a way we can't see right now, that is the lesson to learn. We need to guard our happiness and nurture it furiously for ourselves and the family. Because, for your kids, your life is your lesson.
If not now, when?
Chef Louis called me again. He has an idea for starting an underground restaurant in his house. Would I help by using sous skills and front of house skills?
"Sure, I can help you out!" Because, I have recently relearned, I can.
I noticed the other day when stopping by the Home Depot for a new light switch that they are hiring.
FOR THE CORNMEAL BISCUITS
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 cup fine cornmeal
2 tsp. sugar
1 1/2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. kosher salt
6 Tbs. cold unsalted butter, cut into 1/2 inch cubes
3/4 cup sour cream or plain whole milk yogurt
Milk
FOR THE RATATOUILLE
1 large eggplant (1 1/2 pounds) cut into 1-inch chunks
3 small zucchini (3/4), cut into 3-inch chunks
7 Tbs. extra virgin olive oil
1 tsp. kosher salt
3/4 tsp. freshly ground black pepper
3/4 pound Italian sausage, casings removed
1 large onion, cut into i-inch dice
1 red pepper, cored and cut into 1-inch chunks
3 large garlic cloves, finely chopped
1 1/2 pounds plum tomatoes
4 sprigs thyme
1/4 cup chopped fresh parsley or basil
1. For the biscuits: In a bowl, whisk together the flour, cornmeal sugar, baking powder, baking soda and salt. Using a pastry cutter or fork, cut in the butter until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Fold in the sour cream. Gently knead mixture until it comes together in a ball, adding a drop or two of milk if necessary. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate until ready to use.
Preheat oven to 450º.
2. For the ratatouille: In a bowl, toss eggplant and zucchini with 5 tablespoons oil, season with 3/4 teaspoon salt and 3/4 teaspoon pepper. Spread vegetables in a single layer on one or two large baking sheets (do not crowd vegetable). Transfer to oven and roast, tossing occasionally, until golden, about 20 minutes.
3. Meanwhile, in a large, deep preferably oven-proof sauté pan, heat 1 tablespoon oil. Crumble sausage into pan and cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until golden, about 7 minutes. Use a slotted spoon to transfer sausage to a paper-towel lined plate.
4. Return pan to medium heat and add remaining 1 tablespoon oil. Stir in the onion, pepper, garlic and remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt. Cook until softened, 5 to 7 minutes. Stir in the tomatoes and thyme sprigs; simmer gently until tomatoes are cooked and mixture is stew-like, about 10 minutes. Stir in the sausage, roasted vegetables and parsley. If you are not using an oven-safe pan, transfer mixture to a 2-quart gratin dish or baking pan.
5. Divide biscuit dough into six equal balls. Use your palm to flatten each ball into a 1/2 -inch thick disk. Arrange on top of ratatouille mixture. Brush biscuit lightly with milk.
6. Transfer skillet or pan to oven and cook until biscuit are golden, 25 to 30 minutes. Let cool 10 minutes before serving.
No comments:
Post a Comment