Emotional roller coaster part 1

I want to describe how I feel to you and I don’t know how to do it.

I can only equate this emotion by asking you to imagine yourself having an adopted child. One you wanted very much. Imagine that you searched years to find the perfect match. During your search every day you knew something was missing in your life and when you finally ended the quest you knew that your soul was completed. You love this child, you raise them and watch them blossom beyond your wildest expectations growing into their own person of grace, compassion, kindness and comfort to others. You marvel at how you have been blessed to have this child in your life. Then imagine that this child has a physical condition requiring intravenous medication every few days, a life giving treatment that this child would die without. Along comes a doctor who knows how to make this medication. Not just administer it but he can create it. But he’s a busy guy and can only do it once a year. The doc not only creates this medication for your family but he does so without a fee. The doc simply shrugs it off, smiles the smile of a savior and tells you he does it because through you he also has come to love this child too and just knowing he can help your family stay healthy brings him great joy and the joy is payment enough. Can you possibly imagine how grateful you would feel? The overwhelming appreciation for another person who can create the means for survival of someone for whom you would sacrifice everything, a gratitude so great that when you try to express it no words really are appropriate.

I have often said Queens Galley is my baby, a member of my family and loved with a fervor matched by my maternal love and parental pride I have for my daughters. Queens Galley, my child, has grown into something far beyond anything I could have ever imagined. I always knew that helping people would feel good but the scope and reach of what I am blessed to be able to do because of Queens Galley is beyond the realm of my wildest dreams. It’s like expecting to go to the neighborhood playground and ending up at Disney World. With the intensity of this good comes the immensity of the work; the reality that to keep Queens Galley alive I spend a great deal of time looking for money. I find it under cushions (small fundraisers) and behind shelves (food drives). Sometimes it arrives on its own like a birthday card in the mail from an aunt that always knows exactly what you want. All of these things come together slowly and they serve not just as a source of revenue but a small yet consistent reminder that we are not alone. The people we serve do not struggle alone because we are never alone in the work we do to keep going. There are always hands to help and because of this the herculean task is made more manageable. Then, once a year, I get a call from WBPM. A familiar voice says “hey it’s that time”; Time for the “Rally for the Galley”. Don Verity, the WBPM station manager, and I meet, we talk about potential sponsors, break out the to-do lists and we part until the big day.

When it arrives “ it” doesn’t officially begin for me until a specific moment. The Rally for the Galley doesn’t really begin until I get that hello hug from Jack Hammer . The rally was Jack’s idea. He’s the doc who makes the medicine that saves the life of the Queens Galley. Who knew that angels wore leather and Ray bans?
This year going into the rally was unsettling. In previous years I had always been there for set up at 5:30 am in the Verizon wireless parking lot. Saying hello, sharing some of Dave’s outrageous breakfast pizza from Angela’s with Jack and Andre and getting my hug from Jack. This year I wasn’t supposed to be there. I am in school and had two final exams scheduled for Friday. One of them was a morning class that had me on campus right when I would have been getting that hug. The upside was that in previous years I was always working the Kingston farmers’ market on Saturday and would miss most of Saturday because of work but I’d get there for the final furious push.

Often best laid plans go awry and this was one of those times. The weather report broadcast on Thursday evening said we’d be waking to high winds and considerable rain on Friday. I decided to set my alarm earlier and to leave the house giving me more than ample time to drive like an old lady from Kingston to the CIA campus in Hyde Park. And while it is always dark and cold at 4am this was darker, colder and wetter than any I have ever experienced.

The rain was steady and from the water building on the sides of the road it had been a steady force for a few hours. I took my usual route and got to 9W in Esopus around 5am. Twice as long as it normally takes me, at that point I was glad to have left so early! Interesting thing I learned about the stretch by the creek. There are no lights. No streetlights to illuminate potentially flooded streets. At the moment my front tires hit the surge of water that would carry my car against it’s will into a side ditch my cell droned out the word “Droid”. My phone ‘says’ that when I have a message or an alert. Ironically, this alert was telling me that the creek over flows at 11.5 ft and it was now at 14ft. Flooding was probable. I got to read the alert as I was sitting there, hands shaking with my car half covered in shrubbery. It took me a few minutes of double checking the rest of ME to make sure I was alive and unharmed before I realized that sitting in my car surrounded by water might not be the smartest thing to do. At this point you might be thinking “wow, she must have been so scared of drowning”. You’d be wrong. I was scared that my chef would fail me for missing the damn final. In almost the same brain wave that gave me that thought I realized that even if he did fail me I’d be alive to bitch about it so I should just be grateful.

Help arrived fairly quickly and I had to decide between going south to take the exam I was now officially late for or to turn around and get that hug from Jack. I have to admit that the idea of a hug was better than anything else at that moment. Hydroplaning in the dark is one scary ride I NEVER want to go on again!

My hands were still shaky when I got to the Verizon parking lot. I’m not sure if that was due to the accident or that I had not heard from my team leader who must surely have been pissed at me for missing class.

If misery loves company then Friday morning was a party. The camper from Boat ‘N RV Warehouse that was to be the WBPM mobile command post for the remote broadcast had no power. Jack and Andre were groping around in the dark as they tried to set up the equipment and the best help I could offer was to aim 1.5 headlights at the entrance of the camper to shed a little light for them. The rain was torrential at this point. It was cold. All of us were wet. I realized that one wiper wasn’t really being effective because it had Esopus leaves stuck in it. And there wasn’t a slice of breakfast pizza in sight.

Interesting thing about annual events. Every year you learn some way to prepare for a catastrophe by going through chaos. Jack and Andre have been through the power issue before and as a precaution had run an extension cord from the Verizon store the night before as a precautionary measure. The cord was ample to power the equipment but no one had ever thought to bring a light source. It wasn’t until daybreak that anyone could see more than a shadowy silhouette in the camper, which was fine because there weren’t any smiles to be seen.

Eventually the sun came up, the camper guy showed to fix the generator, my chef messaged me that we’d work out the final (and he hoped I was safe) and there was breakfast pizza. The rain continued and we listened to the weather advisory and reports of power outages, trees down, roads closed and homes being evacuated and the reassurances that the sun would be out in the afternoon. This was all temporary. Of course it was. Armageddon is temporary, it wreaks havoc and destruction and moves out of the way so the sun can shine on the ruins that are left to be rebuilt. This was a critical fundraiser that needed people to come outside. OUT side. To a tent. To drop off money. As I looked at my dented car and wondered how I’d be fixing that, somewhere just a few miles from us were homeowners that looked down into flooded basements and up at leaky ceilings and here I was hopeful they’d come out to give us money. Fat chance that would be.

Jeanine arrived shortly after I had. She was both surprised and relieved to see me. Jeanine amazes me, I always expect her to be in control, calm and prepared for anything; mostly due to her track record of being in control, calm and prepared for anything. Speaking on a radio show was something she was very nervous about and to add to the nerves was the fact she knew how critical the success of this event was. She’s relatively new to her job as program coordinator and while she has the Queens Galley elevator speech down pat the very idea that the fate of our organization could crumble as the result of something she said on air made her nervous. It made me smile to see she was human and slightly imperfect; somehow it made her more perfect to me.

With Jeanine came more visible sun. The rain tapered but stayed steady. Traffic on rte 9W was slow but at least there were cars so that meant that roads were open, even as schools were closing. I set up the laptop, Jeanine set up everything else on our end as the guys finished setting up the broadcast area. Everyone was busy and even through the comfort mundane processes there was an undercurrent of discord, something just didn’t feel right. It just felt wet.

The switch-over from station to remote location started on time-ish , a delay only by a few minutes, a small miracle when the morning activities are taken into consideration. We go through the check list. Power, check. Transmission, check. Pizza, check. Phone lines. Phone lines. Hello? Phone lines? The phone line wasn’t working. The phone that some donor might be calling wasn’t working. The number that had been advertised and on the web wasn’t working. A quick substitution of another cell was made until we sorted out the donation line.

Next, Felice shows up. Her official title is volunteer coordinator, truth be told she is my executive assistant, right hand and voice of reason. She was a little surprised to see me, I recounted my morning to her and she said it was the smartest move I had made. My being dead on the side of the road just would not have been productive today. She knew I would be worried about my exams but she reiterated that the worst possible scenario would be a class failure but at least I’d be alive to take it again. She had a good point there. If you know Felice you’d know she usually has a good point there. Felice is also keenly aware of her surroundings. She’ll often look at me with a quizzical look and say “didn’t you notice…yada, yada and yada?” Usually I have not or have noticed but overlooked a nuance that stood out to her like the 500lb blue gorilla in the room. Today’s gorilla was a tension with Jack and Andre, a tension not with each other but with something else or more likely someone else. I had chalked it up to the usual rattling between them and management of the station. Some of it I wondered if it was just part of the morning show schtick and how much was based on labor Vs management/ morning show Vs any time slot later. Felice picked up on it immediately, I was still wondering if I could name five fresh and five dried chiles for my Cuisines of the America’s final exam and if this radio-thon would raise enough to get us to Thanksgiving.

Right around 9 am some of the more loyal WBPM morning show listeners start popping in to say hi to Jack and Andre and to drop off donations. It was a parade that would play the same song all day long, a person I had never met would come by and drop some change or a few dollars into the box and say they wish it could be more. Times were tough but they wanted to give something, and oh, yes they thought Jack and Andre were the best. At this point two things happen.

First is Robbie Dupree shows up and the next is Jeanine reminds us that we need to call the camper guys back because the water reserve is empty and that made using the rest room a little fragrant. The guys visit with Robbie, he looks amazing. His Time and Tide cd is doing well and Robbie tells us about his recent experience on Jimmy Fallon’s tv show. Jordan Schor shows up too while Robbie is there, great! We can get Jordan on the air too to talk about Dine one Share one. Things are starting to look up. Except at that very moment when the guys decide to go on air with Robbie I have to use the restroom. I mean HAVE to use it. The stress of the morning has decided to outrageously demand an exit immediately. Remember folks we’re in a camper with doors and walls made of manila folder materials covered in wood grain shelf paper. No problem. I’ll just go in and be quiet and if I have to just stay in there until the five minute break is over.

Five minutes is a really long time. Five minutes in a closet that stinks of…well, it stinks…and I can’t flush because I’m sure the sound of flushing while the mic is hot wouldn’t be a good thing and if you’ve ever listened to the Electric morning show with Jack and Andre you also know that people in bathrooms are fair game for ridicule. I wasn’t calling attention to my predicament until after the break. No matter what. No matter if the smell was turning me green. Just at the apex of my wondering if I could stand another second I look at the sink top. Jeanine had been here. Jeanine the prepared (that’s going to be her new Knight name) had been there. The evidence was an assortment of hand sanitizers, soap and bless this woman, a small atomizer air freshener. Let me just say to those of you who know what’s coming next to please understand that there are those of us who cannot think past the moment. Had I been the type to think past the moment I would have known that the little atomizer lets out a very strong perfume. The kind that is meant for a large room. The kind that leaves a purple cloud in the air and you can see the purple mist physically battle with the green odor demons you’re trying to destroy. Now I really can’t breathe. The bathroom is smaller than that on a jet blue flight to Newark (why bother it’s a short flight just hold it in).

If I turn round it’s the green goblin funk and facing forward is the purple mist jousting squad, I’m caught in the middle trying not to gag. I can’t flush because of the noise and now I refuse to open the door because of the two smells cavorting together are sure to escape and bring ridicule toward me. Why on earth did I eat that second slice of breakfast pizza? In my panic I look up. Aha! There is a small square vent with a crank handle to open the little lever like window. Yep. There it was. On the ceiling. I’m short. Ceilings and I are only on a distant acquaintance level, we’ve never really been properly introduced because the likelihood of us meeting often is slim. Ceiling is up there and I’m down here. I suppose climbing on the toilet could be an option, then from there onto the sink. Yeah. Right. That’s likely to A) not happen or B) bring about what I’m trying to avoid, calling any attention to the fact that I am trapped in the bathroom by the stinkies. How much longer of the five minute break can possibly be left? Robbie’s been talking for awhile, I hear them all laughing loudly, and obviously he’s already gotten to the punch line of the story, really how much longer could I be trapped in this gas chamber of doom? Four minutes. That would be four minutes left to go. I had only been in there for a minute. God help me this was going to be a long day.
After what felt like an eternity the on air chat ended and a few people left the camper so I felt it was safe to exit the bathroom. I waved the door around a little as I left just to give some extra insurance. A mental note was made that if I ever buy a camper to buy one with a window I could reach.

My five minutes in the chamber OF HORRORS will be our little secret ok?

During my absence (that no one seemed to notice) the donation line rang a few times, more friends of the morning show stopped by and we were putting our first tally together. The morning started slowly, and by noon it was clear that the weather had played a significant role in a dampened effort to raise funds. We posted on facebook, sent out updates and checked emails. Jeanine called friends and I texted previous donors and supporters. The guys made better plans. They got the Freedom Fighters bike club together for a helmet drop. This would mean that on Saturday there would be a team of large tattooed guys in leather standing on the yellow line in the middle of the road asking drivers to roll down windows and drop in change. Dave from Angela’s set a goal of $3,000 in the three hours they’d be out there on Saturday. We all told him we thought he’d raise more and I prayed in my heart with fervor that he wouldn’t do less. The Queens Galley is out of money. We had taken a loan from Jay, my husband, for $3,000 to get through the past week. We started the rally 3K in the hole.

Funny thing about holes. When you’re alone down there you feel trapped. Sort of like how I felt in the bathroom. But as soon as you know there is help and you know you’ll be out soon the feeling of liberation is immediate. These guys have always been there for us and it reminded me of a joke about a guy in a hole. While he’s down there he’s passed by a rabbi, priest, cop, fire fighter and there may have even been a duck. Not sure about the duck but the rest of them when asked for help either walked by or said they’d go get some help. Finally a friend walks by. The guy in the hole asks for help and the friend jumps in. The guy is annoyed and says why the hell did you jump in here? Now we’re both stuck! The friend smiles, say’s “nah. I’ve been down here before and I know the way out”. Working with these guys is like that. I know they love the galley and there’s no way they’re getting away this weekend without giving every ounce of effort they have.

By 5pm on Friday we had raised less than $5,000, almost $7,000 less than the same time previous year. But we were all feeling a little better and whatever drama was going to unfold with the guys had obviously been set aside so all energy could go into making Saturday be better than Friday.

At the tail end of Friday we were visited by hope and quite accidentally. And while at the time I was the only one to find humor in the fact that it was a toilet that brought this person into us now that you know what happened during the Robbie interview you can understand why I thought a cell phone falling into a toilet to be funny and fortuitous at the same time. A gentleman stopped in at the camper because his significant other was visiting the Verizon wireless store. They both bought new phones from Jay. Being a good husband he suggested that James go visit us while Lori settled on a phone. We discovered immediately that we liked Jim and that he and I have several friends in common. Making the future seem even brighter was when Lori joined us and within minutes we realized we had just made two new friends.
A rocky start to a tumultuous day and when I fell into bed next to Olivia in the camper I realized that I yet to get my hug from Jack.

To be continued….

The Next Step

The next step. It is what takes us beyond where we have been and at times beyond where we ever could have imagined going. Sometimes we try to plan our next step; what folly! I have discovered that even the most carefully prepared plans can go awry with just one misstep. Elaborate wedding plans can be modified after just one night with one too many tequila shots. Olympian Ice skater Tanya Harding experienced in one step the loss of a lifetime of steps toward a gold medal and Tanya’s misstep was in front of cameras for all to see again and again. Recalling Tanya Harding hitting the ice in public view somehow softens the blow to my own ego as I take my own annual step-turned-spill on the Hudson Valley winter ice. Most of the time no one is witness to what must look terrifically funny and for that I am tenderly grateful.

Some steps have been rewarding. The steps toward a podium to make a speech expressing appreciation for the honor of being selected as ConAgra Foods Foundation’s national Champion Against Child Hunger came with tears of gratitude. The steps I took into the auditorium seats at the high school graduation of my oldest daughter, Megan, came with tears of pride. The steps I took up to the altar to stand with my husband came with joy as we both took our next step, our first step as man and wife.

Sometimes taking the next step is fraught with fear or sorrow. Although I feel at home now at the Culinary Institute of America, my first step into Roth Hall on “Day One” was a step I’ll never forget. The feeling of exhilaration and fear all whirled around like an internal cyclone of emotion simply took my breath away. Sometimes, walking into Roth Hall still does that to me and I hope it always will.

I believe that taking next steps towards new beginnings are among the most difficult things we do. Avoiding those steps can change our course in life as dramatically as if we had the bravery to take them.

There is always a next step. As a new parent, twenty years ago, I begged, bribed and waited to rejoice as I watched my Megan take her first step; but it was the next step that I really celebrated because it was that step that brought her back into my arms.

I’ve watched my daughter Megan take many more steps since then. I watched as Megan stepped onto the big yellow school bus that seemed to swallow my little girl whole. I watched as Megan stepped onto the school stage for her first Christmas play and I stood to applaud the loveliest little angel near the manger. I watched as Megan stepped into her prom gown and later stepped into her first car after getting her drivers license. I cried watching every one of those steps. Sometimes I wanted to hold her so tightly that she could not physically take her next step; but that isn’t the way the next step works. Megan needed to take her next steps in order to help me take mine.

As I’ve gotten older some next steps have been difficult. Some physically and others emotionally. After a recent surgery and diagnosis of congestive heart failure taking even a few small steps were painful. With Megan’s help I was able to navigate what had suddenly changed from Home Sweet Home into a treacherous obstacle course. Megan helped me to take slow steady steps and when I could not step any longer she took some steps for me.

Sometimes the next step takes us closer to something we dread. Just recently I stepped out of a car and into a hospital emergency room, knowing that each step would bring me to the quiet room that played an antiseptic host to my dying mother. I knew as I crossed the threshold that I stepped into that room as a child and when I stepped out I would have to be all grown up. This step was a defining step into adulthood, more so than any other had been.

In one step I was expected to know all the answers. In one step my childhood ended and it was so profound I could not move. I looked at the face of my mother in peace and wondered what her last steps had been like. Had she stepped into the ambulance in pain? When her feet left the floor for the last time did she know in her heart that she had taken her last step? I then wondered what her first step had been like. Did her mother celebrate with open arms? So many steps in between the first and last. Each next step leading to great joy and great sorrow, Megan was with me the day my mother died. A beautiful young woman holding my arm making sure my next steps were in comfort and consolation.

The step into the funeral home was surreal. None of this was expected. The sad faces of friends and family stepping into the room strewn with flowers to kneel beside her casket for a final farewell. How ironic it is to me that we say goodbye to someone who has taken their last steps by bending our knees and removing our feet from the floor.

This morning I came downstairs and stopped to look at the assembly of shoes by the front door. Olivia’s roller skates and tiny sneakers filled with sand from playing hard as six year olds will do. Caitlin’s pumps just out of the box ready to be worn on her very first date. Megan’s flip flops so well worn that the imprint of her foot has faded the design, My husband’s shiny dress shoes and my school shoes all mingled together. A gathering of soles telling tales of past steps, waiting eagerly to take on the next steps. My gaze locked on the flip flops a little longer. The recollection of Megan’s help the past week still so fresh it can barely be called a memory. Someday, I thought, she will take those steps that will change her from child into adult. Then, I looked at my school shoes and settled next to my mother’s cane and realize she already has.

Rosemarie's Life lessons

Saturday August 14, 2010 we said our final farewell to my mother, Rosemarie McGuigan. I knew I was expected to say something to the many people gathered there to mourn her death and celebrate her life. Our relationship was complicated, like so many ties between parent and child it was one woven in threads of many colors to reveal a work of sigular texture. I was asked after the funeral if I would post what I had shared. Here it is, the things my mother taught me. I hope there is a lesson in there for you too.



Things my mother taught me

My mother taught me patience by giving me opportunities to lose my temper.

My mother taught me that there is still value in being part of a family, even if it is broken.

My mother taught me that it is ok to fall in love even if it means discovering heartbreak.

My mother taught me that forgiveness of a person is possible even if they make unforgiveable choices.

My mother taught me that compassion means more than giving a person a handout. Sometimes it means giving them a kick in the ass.

My mother taught me that rules exist for a reason and when we forget to follow them we lose our course in more ways than one.

My mother taught me that the degree of wealth a person has is not measured by how much they have, but by what percentage of what they have that is given away to help others.

My mother taught me that not only is it ok to have dessert before dinner but that some days it's really ok to have dessert FOR dinner.

My mother taught me to cherish the time I have with my children because some mothers are not so fortunate to have that blessing.

My mother taught me that the moment I start to take myself too seriously is the moment when others will not take me seriously at all.

My mother taught me that when I needed to find someone to blame for something I had done, all I need do was look in the mirror.

My mother taught me that it is possible for an ex husband to be a good father and a miserable choice for a mate at the same time, and yes, still be a very good person.

My mother taught me not to be overly concerned with having "more" by reminding me that there were times when we didn't have 'enough".

My mother taught me not to sweat the small stuff. When something looks like a crisis, evaluate it by asking if life, safety, security or reputations are in jeopardy. It may be just a molehill in the clothes of a mountain.

My mother taught me that just because you CAN do something doesn't mean you SHOULD do it.

My mother taught me that it is far better to have a knife callous on my hand than a callous on my heart.

My mother taught me that it is better to be an hour early than a minute late, but if you're late be prepared to make a damn good entrance.

My mother taught me to be grateful for friends who have not only given me joy but to those who have received joy from me without my ever expecting something in return.

My mother taught me the value of a good meal is determined not by how much food is on the plate but by how much love is gathered around the table.



My mother taught me many things; sometimes by example and often by example of what not to do. I am grateful for every lesson learned and hope that I can help teach a lesson here today. My mother dreamed of sharing her dining table with all of her children and grandchildren and asking simply, "Please pass the peas". Her dream never became reality and now any opportunity for that to come to fruition is lost for her. Just outside the door to this room I have placed packets of garden pea seeds. I encourage you to take one. Plant them. Grow them. Harvest them. Call someone with whom you have not spoken for too long or someone with whom you need to make amends. Invite them for dinner and pass the peas.



I love you mom.

Why August?

August is a difficult time for many of the guests that visit the Queens Galley soup kitchen and other emergency resources for food in our country. No State or city is immune to food insecurity. Households that experience high levels of food insecurity also commonly deal with health issues that are diet related (diabetes, obesity, hypertension), these households deal with drug or alcohol addictions, anger management, depression, suicide and marital dysfunction ;no surprise when you think about increased stress financially and the physical issues that come with hunger.

Kids in food insecure households are dealing with added social issues, stigma associated with poverty, pressure from peers. Hungry kids are unable to focus on school. Lower test scores can also lead to feelings of inadequacy and depression; higher instances of alcohol or drug use. More absenteeism is found in food insecure households due to health related issues that can directly be attributed to diet.

Our school systems offer breakfast and lunch programs, either free or at a reduced rate (often as low as 25 cents per meal). During the school year this serves as a critical source of nutrition for our kids and a welcomed relief for the families struggling to make ends meet. Unfortunately during summer break, winter break or when schools are closed due to extended snow days the impact on food insecure households is severe.
August is the point at which the need is greatest and the resources strained for families on food stamps. The allocation average of about a dollar per person per meal is stretched to capacity and the added burden of having to secure supplies for the September back to school week can be devastating. Many parents have run out of food stamps long before August ends and funds for food compete with the need for new shoes, sneakers, back packs, pens and pencils.
Many people think of soup kitchens in November. The holidays bring out the best in our communities and often not for profits will secure the lion’s share of their donations for the year in the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Year ’s Eve. The truth is that while we love to have your support at any time of the year, in August the need is more severe than it is at Thanksgiving. Think about it for a moment. On Thanksgiving there are many options for a meal. Churches, civic organizations and community recreation groups often hold holiday meal gatherings that are free to the public in need. Even families that don’t like each other will gather on Thanksgiving (explaining and increase in domestic violence calls that week every year). Many people will want to volunteer on Thanksgiving. We suggest that for volunteers who would otherwise be alone to certainly come join us but for those volunteers that have been inspired because of the season we ask them to consider coming in not when the snow falls but when the beach umbrellas are open!
I would encourage anyone thinking about volunteerism to consider the summer months as well as the winter holiday season. After all, a gift of compassion is valued no matter what time of year it is given.

Just Breathe...

A writing class exercise, taking a very close look at just one small moment of your day and try to capture then explain that detail ...and hopefully capture all of the emotion that goes along with it.

My moment, an early morning....

Just breathe. From the moment the alarm rings at 4:30am, every weekday morning my life is a flurry of activity and a test of skill in time management. Most of the time it is barely managed! Double or triple tasking becomes creative, listening to a weather report while showering, checking voice mail while brushing my teeth, setting up both breakfast for the later revelry of the household and choosing our dinner meal simultaneously. Emails for work are checked in between classes, and meetings are scheduled while in transit between two counties to accommodate other errands or childcare. Who has time to breathe?

Waking just before dawn, when the world is tranquil and the frenetic tempo of the day to come is still quiescent, I look over at my daughter Olivia, deep in the sleep of the young. I notice that she has a new freckle on her nose! Her brow is relaxed and her lips are at peace. No worrisome dreams this night for our six- year old. I lie by her side with my hands tucked under my head and just watch her breathe. Her eyelids are almost translucent and pale with a hint of dark circles under her eyes. Olivia’s eyes when she is awake are always filled with such expression! As is expected from a six- year old the world simply whirs around her in a blur of dance and song and questions…always questions! There are days when I just want to scream “Enough! Enough already with the questions!”

I spend quite a bit of energy trying to get Olivia to sleep and yet I rarely engage in the pleasure of watching her in that state. As I look at her now, her chest rising and falling I can remember that same tempo when she slept on my breast as an infant. The same lovely lashes closed over her hazel eyes, the same little smile veiled in slumber and the same little nostrils flared upon inhale, and now, welcoming the newly arrived freckle. Or is it new? It has been awhile since I studied her face. When I looked at her today I could see the precious infant that she was and in just one breath I can focus my gaze and see the beautiful woman she will become.

I snuggle in closer and can smell the coconut shampoo scent lingering in her hair. Closing my eyes I can remember what she smelled like the day she was born. I reach over to brush my hand over her hair; she must have felt my touch because she moves slightly towards me. In moving her arm, the white Battenberg lace trimmed coverlet slips to cap her head and for an instant my heart swelled with both pain and joy to think of what she would look like on her wedding day. What paths will she take? What choices will she make? Will she find the answers to all of those incessant questions? Most of all, I wonder and hope that someday she will take the time to snuggle close to the daughter she loves just to watch her breathe.

Welcome Chris Goodyear, Queens Galley guest blogger!

************************************************************************************* Ever since I was a little child, I have always been interested in food. Because of this fact, I decided that when I grew up, if this ever happens, I was going to make sure that I worked in a kitchen, or with food people my entire life, doing what I love to do. That is why I decided to go to a Culinary School.

As part of my training for culinary school, I decided to volunteer at The Queens Galley, in Kingston, NY. The Queens Galley is a not –for- profit soup kitchen that supplies food to anyone that walks in the door. The food that they serve is either donated to them by local businesses, or it is bought with the money that is provided by the state.

It was very easy to start working there as a volunteer, as all I really had to do was go in and inform Diane Reeder that I would love to help out, and as I filled out the form giving them all of the information that they could possibly ask for, I was given hours. I started work the following Thursday, when I was working a lunch shift. I came in very hesitant, and wondering if I could even be any help, but as soon as I shook hand with John, the very competent man in charge of the kitchen that day, I was given a job to do. Within a couple of minutes, I was right at home, chopping, slicing, heating up, and all other assorted cooking terms you can think of.

After about an hour of prep work and getting ready for lunch, It was time to start serving. This is a very rewarding part of the experience there, and it was really something I had never encountered before. Me and about 3 of my coworkers were handed plates, two at a time, to go serve to the people waiting outside in the dining room. All of these people had been there before, and knew what to expect, but even as I put the plates of food down in front of them, you could see how grateful they were. It was a great feeling to know you were helping someone.

All in all, it was a great first day at work. I had a blast working, and it felt great to know that I was also giving something back to the community in the process. I look forward to working there much more in the future, and I will put even more detail about exactly what we do at The Queens Galley in future blogs.

The orientation tour

Wednesday I had an interesting mix of being the visitng guest in the morning and the incoming student in the afternoon. I was invited to speak with the class at St Andrews on the CIA campus by Chef Dan Turgeon ( '85, C.H.E). The morning class seemed interested in what I was saying and knowing that not every person gets as hyped about food stampes and farmers markets as I do it was absolutely gratifying that noone fell asleep.

The talk ended about 9:15 and I discovered that 9:30 is a great time to hit the Apple Pie bakery, 15 minutes later on my way out I had to work around a swath of students. Mike Brown from admissions was a great tour guide (I asked for the abbreviated version, no need to tour the dorms or rec center...). My real treat came after, in the financial aid office. The people there were kind and helpful but best of all I FINALLY got to meet Ruth Stern! I have been "working" with Ruth on and off for about two years now when we have had work study students at the Queens Galley. It's always nice to place a face to a name/email!

While walking through Roth hall I did wonder, how long will it take for the unfamiliar to become familiar?