NOLA Notes

It’s been a wacky transition for my whole family getting adjusted to all the new things that come with having Sun at a new school: new hours, uniforms, teachers, classmates, schedules, and systems. It’s not all been smooth nor without second thoughts. But things are calming down, and we are adjusting to the newness of it all.

I have hesitated to write in the moment of any particular upset because the upsets are not mine; they are Sun’s. Sure, they impact me, bear on me, effect and influence me. But I do not have the starring role in these dramas. And I know Mommy Bloggers the world over will snub me once and for all for stating that the details of my daughter’s ups and downs, as seen through my eyes, are not, in my humble opinion, blog-worthy fodder. Fertility treatment to get pregnant for Sun? Laser treatment for Sun’s birthmark? My woes with nursing? I don’t see these topics bothering Sun were she to read about them in ten or twenty years time.

But the particulars of why she struggled in her first days of class? And how that drove me off the cliff of sanity for a stint? I just don’t find that fair to her down the line. And although I have used this blog as a personal diary of sorts, it was of MY thoughts, fears, experiences.

I get that as a mother, I have my own thoughts, fears and experiences that relate to parenting. But it is a fine line between MY experiences as a parent and my daughter’s experience at, well, life. And me blogging about my parental observations of my child’s life experiences has been something altogether unappealing to me.

Maybe it’s the lawyer’s sense of client-confidentiality that’s kicked in. But as Sun grows and becomes more SUN and less MY DAUGHTER to the world at large, I find it increasingly more difficult to write blog posts, humorous or serious, about matters relating to her. And since my life currently is comprised of work and Sun with very little drinking-in-the-New-Orleans-lifestyle, I’ve found that I have less and less to blog about these days.

I’m not pulling the plug on my little corner of the internet. But I did feel it worthwhile to share WHY there’s less content on this blog for the time being. And although nothing would tickle me more than for this post to actually cause a dust-up among Mommy Bloggers, I know it won’t; they stopped reading me years ago.

I found my second-oldest brother in the garage filling a box. “Whachadoin?” “Moving out.” “No, really. What are you doing?” “Nola, really, I am moving out.” Back to that box being filled he went full of determination. He wasn’t remotely kidding. So what was an 11 year old girl to do? “Can I help?” He shrugged and allowed my help.

I never fully understood WHY he moved out. Something about disagreeing with my parents about religion and school and other teenaged-angst-filled issues. I remember most that no one in the family talked to each other about it. Just one day he was no longer living in the house. And I was the only one that seemed even affected by it. I am sure, in fact, I was NOT the only one affected. But with all that not-talking, it’s what it seemed like.

Weeks after he left, there were still things piling up that were his. And every so often, the pile would disappear as he’d return to claim those piles. One shoebox full of cassette tapes got added to a pile. In that shoebox was Supertramp’s “Breakfast in America” album. When he came for his latest stash, I asked if I could have the Supertramp tape. He shrugged. And I plugged into that tape and have never unplugged.

When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
a miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees, well they’d be singing so happily,
oh joyfully, oh playfully watching me.
But then they sent me away to teach me how to be sensible,
logical, oh responsible, practical.
And then they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
oh clinical, oh intellectual, cynical.

There are times when all the world’s asleep,
the questions run too deep
for such a simple man.

I listened to the tape so much that first year that my third-oldest brother would tease me that when I died they’d bury the tape recorder and that album with me. And for the past 30 years, the thought of me alone in eternity with just “Breakfast in America” has given more comfort than I can explain logically.

I listened to it through high school, college, law school; the early days of my legal career; every romantic relationship I’ve had (when things got to the “Casual Conversations” level, it was always over); and now as a mother.

Ah, lately, I’m like a watch that’s over-wound.

Does it feel that your life’s become a catastrophe? Oh, it has to be for you to grow, boy.

But the song that brings the very un-religious me to my knees, if I but let it, each time, every time is “Lord, is It Mine.”

I know that there’s a reason why I need to be alone
I need to find a silent place that I can call my own
Is it mine, Lord is it mine?

When everything’s dark and nothing seems right,
there’s nothing to win and there’s no need to fight

I never cease to wonder at the cruelty of this land
but it seems a time of sadness is a time to understand
Is it mine, Lord is it mine?

When everything’s dark and nothing seems right,
You don’t have to win and there’s no need to fight

If only I could find a way
to feel your sweetness through the day
The love that shines around me could be mine.
So give us an answer, won’t you,
We know what we have to do,
There must be a thousand voices trying to get through.

The song offers no answer. It’s really a cry for understanding. But there’s something immensely powerful to me—this collective need we all have to be able to claim a quiet place as our own; that we all get weary; that hope can be cut to nothing more than a sliver; that it isn’t about being right or wrong; that it’s just about getting through when everything’s dark. That really it’s about having the strength of harnessing all the love in this world that IS directed at us and allowing that to carry us through the darkness.

So as I struggle to find that strength to harness that love, folks, these days I’m Just Another Nervous Wreck. But that’s okay. Because I’ve got the proper theme music as my arsenal and I am armed to the teeth.

They’ll run for cover when they discover Everyone’s a nervous wreck now Life’s just a bummer; they got your number We’ll give as good as we get now

Rise from the gutter, stick with each other We’ll drive ‘em over the edge now They’re gonna bleed, that’s what they need We’ll get together and blow their cover

I’ve super-glued that little fuzzy square back to the tape a dozen times; the cassette has warped from the New Orleans’ summer heat and itself been super-glued back together a time or two; my car tape deck had eaten the tape another dozen times—and I devotedly straightened out the thin ribbon and rewound it back again and again. Of course, I bought the CD and then even the MP3 and now can listen without fear of needing to doctor the tape any longer. But that tape has endured. Yes, worse for the wear. But isn’t that what enduring is really about? Surviving upon great use and not staying pristine with non-use?

It’s not often I lose the fight to stay hiding in my bed. No, usually common sense, the sense of responsibility, and the mere thought of utter laziness does the trick and forces me out of bed. Not today. With the unusual dark morning giving the sense of winter, the list of craptacular things I need to handle on a personal basis today, and the knowledge that I’d return at the end of what I was convinced would a self induced woe-is-me kinda day to a sloppy, toy-ridden house did me in.

So I took my personal calls, emailed into the office and dove back under the covers. Then lay in bed. With eyes wide-open. Then I sighed and roused myself to at least take a shower and make a pot of coffee.

I’ve been struggling, and my husband will tell you my struggle hasn’t exactly been valiant, with depression. I can rally for an hour here, and afternoon there, but lately that dark absorbing spot is licking my heals at every step I take, waiting to suck me back in at any moment I am caught unawares.

I give thought to getting on meds to help with being depressed. But, well, isn’t it the human condition to get depressed from time to time? Is that a reason to go onto medications that in much probability will alter the physicality of one’s brain? If days like today were plentiful–if I missed work on an even somewhat regular basis for having the blues, I’d consider it. But as of this moment, it seems that 95% of the people I know are on some sort of anti-depressant/-anxiety medication. And I wonder whether it’s helping at all. Or just numbing us all into not giving much of a shit. In America, doctors want pleased patients, and when folks see commercials about pills that are the equivalent of magic beans, all too many doctors are happy to oblige. So I know I just need say the word and I’ll have my happy pills. Without the need even to be bothered with a psychiatrist.

But I’ve taken the approach that maybe what I need ISN’T a magic bean, Jack, but being active in my life: more yoga and less television; more staying on top of the never ending mess of toys Sun spatters all over the house and less expecting a four year old to tidy up to my exacting satisfaction; more walking around the block with my family than being online; more cooking than eating out. And in the mix, allowing that sometimes life DOES hand us a shit sandwich. And whether we eat it in small bites or big ones, it is hard to swallow all the same.

So I am off to drink the worst cup of coffee I’ve possibly ever made. Then I’m gonna tackle the toy room. And if there’s still time after that before I have to get Sun, those yoga ropes on the back porch are going to get some action.

This case of the blues may pass today, or I may need another week, but I will NOT be found in bed for the duration hiding it out like a zombie chewing on magic beans.

As I was mentioning yesterday, my first impression of Sun’s grammar school left me feeling dejected and worried I’d made a major error.

One complaint I had was the confusing and vague paperwork the school sent me about parent volunteering. I already volunteer for a couple of local charities and am more than happy to give my time to Sun’s school. But the paperwork was so off-putting that I was tempted to just give the bare minimum. I fought that urge and instead took the ole bull by the horns. I called the Volunteer Coordinator (“VC”). But didn’t leave a message. So I called the next day. And hung up on the machine. Then left a message on the third day. Then sent an email on the fourth day. And continued to wait, admittedly impatiently. The fifth day, I got an email that I’d get a call the next day. And on the sixth day, we made contact.

Before we got to the purpose of the call, the VC welcomed me to the school and offered me an apology for the vague paperwork—that it will be revamped next year. The mere fact that she ACKNOWLEDGED the paperwork was inadequate gave me hope. She went further and herself complained about the evasive Supply List—that the very List is an item she and her Room Parents will to tackle this year. She even expressed her exasperation that parents have to go to four different stores to buy all the items, most of which are cleaning supplies, and—wait for it!—that the Supply List fails to mention that you can buy that super-special tape At. The. School. On. Book. Day!

Was this woman in my head? Had she read my blog? Was I dreaming? I don’t think so; not likely; NO! This was a very real parent being very involved at the school who was honest and caring and concerned. She was in a position of authority and was frank about the shortcomings of her little realm. I liked this woman from the start.

She then answered all my questions, clear up all my confusion, and inspired me to want to do more than I initially even intended.

And I couldn’t be happier.

When I was pregnant, I scouted for a pre-school. Even though Sun wasn’t going to attend one until she was two years old. Ditto for grammar school. We scouted, Open Housed, joined Church Parishes, talked to parents, you name it, we did it to select the best grammar school for Sun. Two years in advance.

Her pre-school was The Awesome. Two years and zero complaints. Literally, not one single complaint. If I could keep Sun here through college, I would. But I can’t. So she’s switching to a pre-k-4 program at a full-fledged grammar school this Fall; her first day is in five weeks. And I’ve already about lost my shit countless times. And doubted my decision even more frequently.

The new school sent me papers in May about uniforms and supplies. The papers included a coupon for uniforms good in the month of June–which I used. Then, in July, the school sent me paperwork indicating that they have a used uniform sale/exchange day at the school in August. Now, why could they not have given me this piece of information in, say, May, yanno, before I thought I was being thrifty by buying the uniforms on sale in June?

No matter. Who wants used uniforms, right? Fine.

Then the Supply List. First, 95% of the list consists of cleaning supplies and only 5% is legitimate school supplies. Why can’t they just charge me an extra $100 in tuition so that the staff can buy my kid’s $50 worth of supplies? I’d pay double to avoid the utter aggravation that was Interpreting The List. Instead, all the kids had to buy paper towels, wet wipes, antibacterial soap, paper plates, cups, forks, etc. And a “box of Lysol wipes.” Box? Um, they don’t come in a box except at Sam’s. Surely they do not mean that each pre-k-4 kid brings an industrial-sized box of wipes, right? I got the tube and called it a typo. Only slightly daunted, I moved on. Next was a “package of paper plates, 6″.” Do they mean the 20, 50 or 100 pack? And, em, I don’t mean to nitpick, but they don’t come in 6″. So WHAT DO THEY MEAN? Whatever. I got the 25 pack of the 6-1/2″. I’m reasonable. I can follow directions. Let’s keep this moving.

Then my favorite: ONE roll Mavalus tape. They nicely indicated on the Supply List that I could procure this item at ONE store in the entire city. So, Mommy Early Prep headed to the store only to be told they didn’t have the one color I needed, white, in stock. So then I waited and called the store a few days later to confirm they had the white in stock, and I got it on my second trip. THEN, a month later, the school sends me a flyer telling me to please come to Book Day at the school where a SECOND store will be selling Mavalus tape to the parents. Really? They couldn’t have stated on the Supply List that there were TWO stores where I could buy it, and, oh, yeah, that I could also get it from the school on Book Day? They’d rather slow play it for the New Parent? Oh, I see their hand now.

Now, let’s talk about this Book Day for a moment. Technically, I see no reason to attend because as a pre-k-4er, Sun doesn’t need to buy a single book. But Hell, yeah, I’m going to Book Day, which is actually at night, just to keep you on your toes. See, this New Parent thing is really some exotic scavenger hunt to test one’s mettle. And sending a Book Day flyer to a parent whose kid needs NO BOOKS is a red flag. They think they can trick me into not going because my kid needs no books. Ha! Well, I just KNOW that at this Book Day, I will learn some nugget of which the school has heretofore failed to inform me. Like what time school day starts or some other minor detail.

Oh, yeah. I’ve got my game face ON. They can bury me in obscure and misleading information about volunteering for the school (although the strong urging makes me question how much of it is voluntary); they can trick me into buying uniforms early at a pricier amount; they can have me chase all over town for a roll of magic tape. And I may even flinch a time or two.

But now I’ve got their number. And if they think they can outsmart me at getting Sun well educated by having me run in circles over things that are nonsense, well, they can think again. Because if all this silliness carries INTO the classroom, the school’s collective heads will spin at how fast we yank her out of this much-scouted, pre-arranged, well-thought-out, highly recommended school and into one that focuses on the single important thing: education.

So, this round goes to the school. And though I am down and doubting our decision, I am not out. I AM sane. And I WILL give it a fair shake. But I’m watching, ya got that?

Laughing Buddha Nursery posted a link to this article today on Facebook. And it got my blood good and boiling.

Apparently a couple in Oak Park, MI had their front lawn torn up to replace a sewer line.  With all that dirt, the couple decided that instead of grass, they’d plant a vegetable garden. And that got the city all bothered.

City code says that all unpaved portions of the site shall be planted with grass or ground cover or shrubbery or other suitable live plant material. Tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers are what Basses see as suitable.

However, Oak Park’s Planning and Technology Director Kevin Rulkowski says the city disagrees. He says, “If you look at the dictionary, suitable means common. You can look all throughout the city and you’ll never find another vegetable garden that consumes the entire front yard.”

So let me get this straight.  This past week, Americans far and wide have been trying to fast-track the passing of a vague “Caylee’s Law” in knee-jerk reaction to the very unpopular Casey Anthony verdict while at the same time asking the court to release the names of the Anthony jurors because “Americans have an interest in better understanding the verdict.” And in the same week, an American city has deemed the tomato plant too uncommon to be grown in one’s own front lawn.

Seriously? What we Americans are choosing to bring law and government into our lives about is shocking. And scary.

For a thoughtful analysis of why Caylee’s Law, though well-intended, is the wrong, and dangerous, thing to do, read here. How we can ever hope to have folks even show up for jury duty, let alone SERVE, if they know that a verdict they arrive at legally, if not in line with the Court of Public Opinion, can subject their names being released by our courts, our government, to the public so they can be hounded, is beyond me.

And now even what plants you grow in your front lawn is subject to the government’s approval?

It’s time we stopped the madness and gave serious, conscientious thought as to what we voluntarily hand over to the government and what we decide it has no business sticking its ugly nose. Because giving things away, especially civil liberties, is a hell of a lot easier than recovering them.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hug a tree. Or a tomato plant.

That’s the sound of me falling of the face of the (blogging) Earth. Sorry, loyal reader. Seems when I paint, it dries up my need/desire to write. I am still alive…and full of opinions and frustrations and love of New Orleans. But I haven’t been doing anything noteworthy in the City and writing about my opinions will just get my blood boiling. So I’ve stayed away from here.

But I miss this place. This space over which I rule and reside.

In the coming days, I may just decide my body can handle, may even crave, boiling blood. So get ready. In other words…

I’M BAAAACCCCKKK!

Here’s the deal: I know how to argue. It isn’t because I am a lawyer (which I am). It is because I was raised by the best arguer I’ve ever met, and I learned my lessons well. I don’t mean “argue” as in scream and carry on. I mean “argue” words; logic; debate — I mean I’ve got mad skilz in the art of ARGUMENTS. I will out-logic your ass faster than you even see it coming. Especially, say, if you are one month shy of being four years old.

Next month is Sun’s fourth birthday. We’ve all settled on her wanting a swing-set for her birthday. So today I asked if she wanted to join me to look at some — let her weigh in on which one she liked best. After a failed stop at Toys R Us, we regrouped and headed to Lowe’s.

Looking back, I am really not sure what had Sun so ready to explode. Sure, the trip to the toy store didn’t go the way she’d hoped, but it wasn’t epic. The tears had dried and she was happy as we hopped out of the car. It may be that she was still hoping to score a toy. As we entered Lowe’s, she said, “They don’t sell swings,” as she pulled me towards a Spongebob plant book.

I steered her away from the bookrack and to the outside plant area. She fought me the whole way, screaming she needed a basket. I insisted she didn’t since we were just LOOKING and I’d carry her if she didn’t want to walk. Which I did — carry her. As we went down the proper outdoor-furniture aisle, her eye spied the beloved car-basket. And she HAD TO BE IN IT. Problem was, a guy was using it. And the screaming began. She wrestled to get out of my arms and I fought to hold on tighter. And all the while her yelling escalated. And so did my resolve. I marched her right out of the store and to the car.

And this is where it got ugly. Out of earshot from other folks.

Sun: I don’t WANT to leave!
Me: Well, too bad. You weren’t listening and were screaming at me.
Sun: Don’t leave! I don’t want to leave! DON’T!
Me: Good. The fact that you don’t WANT to leave makes this better. Maybe next time you will listen and we won’t have to leave.

This escalated more along these lines–with her expressing simply that she didn’t want to leave and me telling her all that she did wrong, in not so kind, patient words.

And then that moment arrived. That moment that I KNEW I had my opponent crushed if I but squeezed. And, oh, I wanted to squeeze. I am happy to report that, today, I did not squeeze.

But here’s my dilemma. It’s in my DNA to argue to that crushing point. And I am TEACHING Sun to argue just as ruthlessly, no differently than my protege taught me — not intentionally but by experiencing the receiving end of it. And sometimes “crushing” isn’t the point, is it? There are many arguments I know I can win, I can crush it, but I will still lose. Sometimes they are worth the crush; sometimes as a parent, as an adversary, making the point, winning the argument, is all there is: no playing in traffic or with fire; no screaming in restaurants because all-of-a-sudden-you-don’t-like-toast; no hitting me because you don’t get your way. But there are other times when arguing MISSES the point entirely.

Why didn’t I just take the moment to look at the stupid Spongebob book? I know the answer is that had I looked, Sun then would have wanted me to buy it. And my message to her today was that not every time we step into a store is an opportunity for her to become an allegory of WANT. We don’t always get what we want; we don’t always get something we didn’t-know-we-wanted-’til-we-walked-in-the-store-but-now-that-we-are-here-I-must-have-it; sometimes we leave with nothing. And such a not-getting is NOT an excuse for a temper-tantrum.

So, what I really ask myself isn’t why didn’t I stop to have a four-year-old try to convince me why she needed me to buy her junk, but rather, why did I let this escalate to the moment where I had to stop myself from figuratively crushing her? I can all but see her on the couch telling her future therapist, “My mother was a violently angry person. And she saved the worst for those she loved best.” And she’d kinda be right. Because not every time will I be able to stop myself from the crush, especially as Sun, and her own mad arguing skilz, mature.

This is my toughest struggle as a mother: I must struggle with the urge to argue ’til I crush Sun. Crush Sun and our relationship. And I must struggle to keep Sun from learning from the best, as I did, how to argue so ruthlessly.

I wrote the following partial post on June 7, 2010:

When non-violence in speech, thought and action is established, one’s aggressive nature is relinquished and others abandon hostility in one’s presence.

~Yoga Sūtra II.35 of Patañjali.

On the evening of September 11, 2001, I had a yoga class scheduled. Knowing yoga always cleared my mind, I decided not to skip it. It was a small class that night; most stayed home to watch coverage, I suppose. We quietly got our mats laid out and ourselves seated to begin class. We were all shocked and sad.

The yoga instructor, Becky, was as equally dumbfounded as we were. We sat together, her facing us. She read to us the “yama” (ethical discipline) of “ahiṃsā” (non-violence); she read to us the above-cited yoga sūtra. She explained that on such a day as that Tuesday was, it was hard to adhere to an idea of non-violence. But that revenge in the way of a counter-attack or, well, VIOLENCE was to be abhorred.

That night, I disagreed with Becky. Not verbally, but in my thoughts. To me, America HAD to show force; to exact revenge; to show strength. And Bush then gave us a tough talking to that made me glad he was President instead of Gore.

But then the Bush Administration got things muddled with lies of WMD. And we went to war in Iraq based on those lies. And we, America, are still paying a very high price. And for what? Revenge. As bizarre as it all is, Bush used our desire to capture bin Laden to instead go after Hussein. But we, America, were so lustful for blood, we greedily signed on to war in the Middle East in hopes it would sate our appetite.

I admit now that I was wrong on the night of 9/11. That theory of non-violence was right. Sure, we must respond to attacks. But we need not resort to violence. It is NOT all there is in the way of dealing with evil in this world.

* * *

Tonight, May 1, 2011, on the heels of the news of the death of Osama bin Laden, I am reminded of my own words. Now we have another death on our hands, with countless soldiers’ lives for which to account as well. And it’s not over. The war on terrorism rages on. The followers of bin Laden now will want to exact their revenge.

War and politics are serious businesses, and there’s nothing new about either. Politicians jockey themselves and the facts to their best advantage, and citizens turn a blind eye so long as their own personal lives aren’t overly hampered.

Americans would do well, myself included, not to be too proud over the death of our enemy. Many others will gladly step up to replace the one down. Our pride can blind us to that hate and heighten it in those that wish us harm.

When will it be enough for Americans to tend her own garden, leave “spreading democracy” to foreign lands alone? We are a smug people. We are too full of ourselves, our great country, to conceive that others may not agree with us and our vision of government and may in fact take offense to our presence in their country to fiddle with their government. Now images of us literally dancing in the streets over the death of one many considered a hero will be splashed all over the world news.

Would it really be so hard to accept the news of this assassination with solemnity and appreciation that it could be a symbol for a step toward real peace? Rather, we choose to let the message go out that we are a ruthless, vengeful, gloating people. Laughing in the face of danger, too hyped up on which side, left or right, to give proper credit, to see that very little, in fact, was accomplished regarding the war on terrorism in the death of bin Laden.

And we wonder why so many in this world have an unkind image of Americans.

I got the idea about a month ago to cook Gumbo Z’Herbes, green gumbo, following Leah Chase’s recipe. But about as quickly as that thought popped into my head, I thought it even better to have Chef Chase make it for me herself.  I made such a comment on Facebook, and Native Palate immediately jumped on the wagon. The next day, I reserved a table for six.  Rene of Blackened Out, his lovely wife, and Pontchartrain joined in.

Leah Chase has single-handedly put Holy Thursday on the New Orleans’ culinary calendar. Each year she makes umpteen gallons of her famous gumbo to serve one day a year.

As stated on Dooky’s menu:

This dish was prepared by the Creoles on Holy Thursday as the last big “meat” meal before Easter Sunday. This gumbo, like all others, was prepared with much labor and love.

Dishes such as Gumbo Z”Herbes were prepared not only to satisfy one’s taste and hunger, but also because there were superstitions attached to them. It is said, that if Gumbo Z’Herbes is eaten on this particular day it will assure the person of as many new friends as there are greens used in the gumbo. The number of greens used must be uneven: 5-7-9 or 11.

Here at Dooky’s, we use nine (9): mustards, collards, red swiss chard, beet tops, cabbage, carrot tops, spinach, kale, and watercress.

In times gone by, women could be seen with their knives and bags all along the neutral grounds digging up pepper grass, which had a lemony tart taste, to add to their gumbo. Now, in place of pepper grass, we use watercress or daikon tops.

I’ve seen Chef Chase on the news on Holy Thursday for years discussing this very gumbo. My expectations going in were great. So great, in fact, I worried they’d not be met. I need not have been concerned; my expectations were blown away. I suppose I expected something more familiar to smothered greens than a gumbo — some sort of a thin broth with lots of long leaves with a full-bodied taste of the greens. This is NOT that dish.

Chef Chase’s green gumbo is, first and foremost, a gumbo. It is rich. The greens are finely chopped, not long and leafy.  The dish pulls out from the greens their natural peppery-ness; you won’t be adding Tabasco. It is also full of meat: tender chicken and various sausages. I don’t know what magical things happen in that kitchen to bring all these green leafys together to in fact taste like a gumbo, and an amazing one at that, and, frankly, part of what makes it so special is not knowing. You taste the many deep flavor profiles. Each spoonful carries with it to your taste-buds the knowledge that it’s been cooked slowly and for a very long time. And all that love the menu says goes into preparing this dish, it is strongly felt for a long time after the bowl is empty.

This is a meal I will never forget. It has a place in the top three of my life. Thank you, Chef Chase, for that.