Microwaved Dreams

Explain the name of your blog and why you chose it.

Weeelll, I’m not really sure sure which the official name is…Ryaanne’s blog came about, because that is my name. Microwaved Dreams is my .com – and that’s where the story is!

Hold up a sec, I need a drink before I even get into this. & yes, Pep, I know I’m not supposed to blog buzzed, but I’ll do my best to maintain composure and not get too far afield. OK, here it is;

Not too long ago, I owned a restaurant. Part owner, 38%…but I ran that shit. And for a time, it was good. We were happy, and young – full of energy and optimism. But things went wrong, and wrong again…until the whole mess was so compounded in sadness and paranoia, that I just had to get out.

So that’s the long story short – but the first twist of irony that should be considered here is that, due to the structure of the building, and the original owner’s vision for the space, we were more or less condemned to cook with microwaves…for eternity!

But still, it should be noted, we did alright for a minute there – a good year and a half, really (if you ask me, which you pretty much did, albeit indirectly).

By the time I had gotten out (tho am still not yet entirely untangled), I had seen the baser aspects of humanity. The capacity to lie – to steal – to prioritize in a way that held little regard for ones “loved ones” – much less business partners.

Sometimes, when I see someone react in surprise, to another human’s capacity for…selfishness (is really all it comes down to, isn’t it?) – it is hard for me not to think them naive. We can really be horrible, spiteful creatures, us humans.

So be it.

But in the course of that experience, I lost something precious. I lost a good dose of my hope for the future – and that things can come out right simply because you are doing what you love, and are willing to work hard for it.

That ought to be the recipe for success, true, but sometimes, you are just going to get fucked, all the same.

Hell, people are gonna die on you, and others will steal from you, at the first hint of an opportunity. And then they will smile and lie to your face so complacently…. You will find yourself on the shit-end of the stick at one point or another, and that is a guarantee. But that does not mean you should give up.

Since then, I have had a hand in establishing yet another kitchen, in both physicality and in theory…& you know what? It’s even better than the first one! The Crescent has not yet started raking in the official accolades like the Pneumatic did, mostly due to it’s  shorter life span. But it’s just so nice and clean, and not a microwave to be seen! There are still plenty of kinks to be worked out, to be sure. But the point here is my own sense of validation (yeah, me!). I am kinda good at this!

Which is a good thought to carry forth with me as I move on yet again, in the worst economy the US has seen since prohibition, or at least the mid-eighty’s!

That I make my own success, and that I make food that people really seem to like. Which is funny, since I am really not such an amazing, or particularly skilled cook. But I can copy anything; show me a picture, I can draw it for you again, play me a song & I’ll sing along, or even play a riff on my trumpet (back in the day, I’m a bit out of practice currently). Feed me a meal, and I can probably cook up another, if you fill me in on a trick or two (were those morels? Or, how DO you get yer souffle so high?)…

But the real nut of the story is this: The Cookbook.

I have all of the Diner recipes – well, not with me, I shipped em up to Alaska already… And a fair few of them I have actually been working on (& dare I say improving?) over these past few years.

So I have been blogging to keep myself writing. Despite the fact that I don’t have the time or energy to dedicate to such a project as an entire book, but I can keep my fingers in shape and in touch with the keyboard.

And despite how radiated and fried my fresh and early hopes of restauranteuring may have become in these past years – there are survivors. A serrated Forschner, with a bent tip (which, I know most of you worth your salt as a cook, will think is a shit knife , but I don’t give a damn, he’s my favorite) And a photocopied pile of grease stained, hand written and hastily typed recipes.

And that one, naughty little dream, which has evaded both the IRS, and their evil fleet of microwaves, all of these years – unscathed.

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