In last week’s column, I told you about how I had recently been called out by friends and readers regarding some aspects of my writing techniques. One of the main things to come into question was my inflated vocabulary. I wrote a detailed story explaining to you that some of the reasons were pathetic and sophomoric at best but the end results worked out ok for me. I didn’t realize it until the question prompted my own introspection, but it turns out that my linguistic skills are nothing more than a direct result of a schoolboy crush I once had. My raging adolescent libido piqued my curiosity and subsequently caused my brain to retain things that it wouldn’t have otherwise. I certainly didn’t realize at the time that one day I would be speaking and writing far more eloquently than a person of my intelligence should be able to for no reason other than that I was fantasizing about a teacher. Looking back on it, I believe it’s the only time ever that both of my thinking regions ultimately wound up on the same page.
Apparently, my story was detailed enough that it didn’t garner my attractive former teacher the anonymity I was hoping for, (or at least not amongst my former classmates.) It prompted a series of e-mails, text messages, and private facebook posts from several of them. Many of my once fellow students recalled the class where I learned my vocabulary, but ALL of them immediately knew the teacher to whom I was referring. The consensus amongst my male former classmates was that apparently I was FAR from the only one who desperately longed to get to know this teacher on a more personal level. One of them went so far as to refer to her course as his, favorite class ever. While the consensus amongst my female classmates was that they recall the class and the teacher, but they didn’t quite retain as much of the curriculum as did I. One girl whom I remain good friends with to this day wrote, “maybe it’s because I had different motives for taking the class.”
As a result of this correspondence, I found myself in the midst of a lengthy, hysterical three way online instant message chat with two of my former classmates, one male, and one female. Between the three of us, we not only confirmed that she had three different name changes while we were in that school, but we came up with the names as well. My one friend even remembered her first name. (If in the unlikely event my old teacher is reading this, I hope she’s taking flattery away from it and not humiliation.) Next thing I knew, I found my two friends and I “rating” our former teachers both male and female. It was kind of sad really, that three forty-somethings were making a top five list of teachers we hadn’t seen in a quarter century on the “would ya?” scale like we were teens sipping milk shakes in the food court at a mall. But it was entertaining as hell. I took some good belly laughs away from it. T.W., and D.R., thank you both for that.
To be fair to our beloved and lusted after former teacher, it should be noted that we went to the same school for grades seven through twelve. So she was actually only updating and upgrading her husbands at an approximate rate of once every 730 days. Not annually as was previously implied. As my twenty-five year high school reunion rapidly approaches this spring, I’m crunching some numbers. If she continued to rotate out husbands at that rate, by my calculations, she should now be on husband number fourteen, and the wealthiest woman in the state of Maryland. My figures could be a bit skewed, however. My math teacher wasn’t nearly as hot as her, so my numeric skills aren’t quite as stellar as my verbiage.
The point of this story originally was to convey the knowledge and skills I’ve gained over the years, much of it I obtained through some less than conventional means and with some less than noble intentions. I didn’t think at the beginning of this piece that people questioning various aspects of my writing would warrant a second column, but it now has so I’ll roll with it. I also wasn’t counting on the amount of responses from my old school mates necessitating replies.
Just recently, I found myself on the receiving end of another line of questioning over the bar pertaining to my writing. One of my regular customers who is also a regular reader of the Swill was discussing the column with me while I was at work. She’s also my neighbor, and has become over the past few years what I consider to be a good friend. She was curious about my background and wanted to know how this all started. She opened with, “obviously you were an English major, but where did you go to school, and how long have you been writing?”
She was a bit taken back when the only suitable response I had was a brief bout of hysterical laughter. I guess I thought she was kidding, but her questions were sincere. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t recall where she said she had gone to school, but she herself had in fact majored in English. She either grossly overestimated my abilities and training, or she overestimated her own ability to sniff out one of her own kind. Once I regained my composure, I was genuinely flattered. And I guess in a warped sort of way I was almost proud of the fact that now I could even fool the trained eye. I truly didn’t intend any disrespect when I found humor in the question.
Once I had surmised that her line of questioning was genuine, I had to answer it. As always, I answered it brutally honest. I see no benefit in lying about my background. That’ll just come back to haunt me later. I explained to her that actually I had gone to culinary school and that I had a Culinary degree, a Hotel and Restaurant Management degree, and a Chef certification. I had never taken a single writing or journalism class. The only English course I had ever taken was a basic, mandatory pre-requisite class. I explained that I had avoided any writing projects at all costs, always waited until the very last minute when they were mandated, and usually failed miserably at them. She seemed authentically surprised by my answer.
The second part of her initial question pertained to how long I had been writing. In order to answer her question, I asked her one of my own. I asked how long she had been reading this column. She replied, “since you’ve been writing it.”
To which I replied, “well, about that long.” It made me feel really good that a bright person such as she thought that I had some potential.
She pondered on my responses for a moment or two, and once she had fully absorbed them, a whole new line of questioning opened up. She said, “so wait a minute. You’re a chef?”
I replied simply, “yup.”
Then came the obvious question that I’ve been asked a thousand times, “so why are you tending bar and not cooking?”
The answer to this question, not at all unlike the answer to the question regarding my vocabulary, has multiple levels. Also, like the aforementioned query, this one prompted introspection and culminated in yet another very pathetic rationalization. I explained to her that much of my kitchen background was in very high-end establishments in the Baltimore and DC areas. When I moved back to the beach (at the risk of sounding arrogant), the pay scale wasn’t nearly what I had grown accustomed to. And at that time, fine dining in this area was scarce at best. If I were to work in a kitchen that wasn’t mine, I wanted the opportunity to learn something, or at least be creative. Now don’t read anything into that. I’m not mocking the beach life, or portraying myself as anything more than I am. It was the early nineties. Things have changed dramatically here since then. I was going through a difficult divorce; I had a very young child who was the reason I woke up every day (still is), and I needed to maintain a certain level of income. I didn’t mean to portray myself like one of those Food Network “D”-bags who are long on personality but short on skill.
Then came the final portion of the answer to this question. Now, this is where it gets as pathetic as the reason for my above average vocabulary. I had to tell the painful truth. I explained to her that at the time, I was in my early to mid-twenties, and recently divorced. I quickly learned that it was much easier to find companionship from behind the bar than from behind the line. An apron smelling like a spilled margarita opposed to one smelling like forty pounds of fresh fish boosted my odds with the opposite sex exponentially. No disrespect intended to my kitchen brethren. I was just at a point in my life where I needed to broaden my target demographic. If I were to one day find a suitable stepmom, I had to keep an open mind and a wide range of prospects.
As it turns out, it took a long time to find that suitable stepmom. And it had nothing to do with my pathetic, immature methods. I had long since stopped searching and she happened upon me quite by accident—so worth the wait. But that’s a story for another day. So years worth of antics behind the bar have proven to be nothing more than fodder for this silly little column. Thanks for playing along.
Until next week,
Syd Nichols
