Food, Fast and Slow

Last week, I spent 48 hours touring the Fast Food belts of Greenville and Spartanburg, South Carolina. While the small Southern cities are beautiful excerpts of America, quaintly nestled under the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina, I spent most of my time getting to know strips of the South that looked a lot like their counterparts up North: landscapes, congested with fuel stations and more quick service food choices than ever.

I was there to scope out my Burger and current project at work. The sandwich, boasting preservative free, fresh toppings is being tested in two regions to find out if it merits national launch next year. On my visit to region #1, I ordered, investigated, tasted, and photographed the Burger dozens of times. I cross referenced a thick corridor of competition. And I watched customers in action - how they ordered, paid, ate, and went on their frenzied way.

Just when I thought I couldn't look at or taste another burger, I found myself calling Peter and asking him to pick up some ground beef at the Elburn Meat Market on his way home. I wanted to try something. I wondered how much better a Burger could taste in slow motion - when I wasn't in a hurry; when the job was done.

Theory confirmed. The best Burger I had all week.

The weekend progressed in a similar manner: I continued studying food, fast and slow, focusing on paced preparation while reflecting on the haste my restaurant group is known for. It was a weekend where I didn't feel the need to hurry. Sure, there was stuff to do - closets to organize, floors to clean, beds to weed, errands to run - but I kept turning a blind eye to my chores. This weekend was about the pool, bike rides, long runs, good books, bubbles, pin wheels, folks, fun, and really good food. 

It all worked because I was serving customers in a similar mindset. They had time, so the food could go as slow as I wanted it.

In contrast, last week I witnessed hundreds of people that had big, hard jobs to do - construction, road work, landscaping, hair styling, nursing, teaching, studying, and parenting. I saw people who had a couple minutes and couple dollars to spare. And I saw them trade in their time and treasure for meals that produced a whole lot of satisfied smiles.

There's no doubt that food tends to taste better on holiday weekends - when life hands you time to spare. But when the weekend ends and America starts its engine again, the nation's workforce can count on the consistent quality, value, speed of service, and perfect French Fries available under the Golden Arches.    

Lo.

Grilled Zucchini Caprese Salad

Ingredients: 
3 medium zucchinis, thinly sliced length wise
Olive oil
Red wine vinegar
Fresh Mozzarella, thinly sliced
Two big leaves of Basil, chopped
Salt, pepper

Directions: 
Drizzle olive oil over zucchini. Season with salt and pepper. Grill over charcoal until tender and starting to char. Let cool.

On a small platter, layer grilled zucchini with mozzarella. Drizzle olive oil and red wine vinegar over the platter. Sprinkle with basil and finish seasoning with salt and pepper to taste.

Burger Girl

Growing up, hamburgers were an option when my Dad was out of them. It was a busy day; we had ground beef; there would be burgers. And frozen crinkle cut french fries.

My Dad's recipe was simple, but returned an excellent bite. In the same way he would sculpt heaping portions of sand into sturdy beach castles at the beach, he would effortlessly mold chuck into portion-controlled patties, season them with salt, pepper, and garlic powder, and make beef a little beefier with drizzles of Worcester.

I would watch the burgers sizzle over a hot griddle with an astute eye, anticipating the day my Dad passed the spatula to me. When I was old enough to take the helm, I was warned and then scolded when temptation got the better of me to leave the patties alone until they were ready to be flipped. I didn't understand the finer points of meat handling; I just got a kick out of giving the patties a push and making juicy puddles around them.

Burgers were done in our household when they were still pink in the middle. We didn't know Brownie the Burger. We would stack our burgers with lettuce, tomato, red onion, a couple pickles, Heinz ketchup and French's mustard and seal our savory towers with toasted buns. If we were lucky, my grandma's sesame seed rolls. It was as American as our dinner table got. And I loved it.

Outside of our home, Burgers hot off of my Grandpa's brick hearth defined the taste of Memorial Day and the Fourth of July; Burgers were the ultimate treat, tucked away in a Happy Meal at the midway point between our house and the mountains; and Burgers were a carnivorous seduction as I stuffed menus every night for two years at Eleven Restaurant.

The Burger in its myriad of forms and formats is an emblem of America. It's pervasive in the culinary marketplace from the fast food chain to the five-star restaurant. Today, there are more places, price points and expressions of burger experiences than ever. No one could have estimated the explosive industry that ground beef on a bun would have created when the Burger was first introduced to our growing nation at the 1904 World's Fair in St. Louis.

I work for the company that revolutionized and set the pace in the Burger industry for almost 60 years. I'm the burger girl. On the burger team. And my job is to help create the next bigger, bolder, better burger on the market.

My job demands that I know burgers inside and out and every layer in between. The weight, shape, make-up, seasoning, cook time, rest time, and serve of a patty; the operational complexity and supply chain implications of adding one more variety of pickle to the menu; and the meltiness of processed cheese in comparison to natural cheese.

According to the experts, making a better burger is easy. Simple science. And it starts with the perfect patty. Thomas Keller believes it's all about freshly ground beef. Mark Bucher, Executive Chef at Burger Joint in Washington DC, says it's about make up and brisket is the way to go. The writers at the Burger Lab tout temperature: keeping ingredients very cold during the preparation process and keeping a close eye on the thermometer as the meat cooks; 130-140 degrees tops. Michael David, Executive Chef at Comme Ca claims that a precise sear and roast process delivers the perfect juicy, medium rare burger. Regardless, the experts preach not to smash it, squirt it, mangle it, over process it, or mix it. Prime beef, freshly ground and gently molded into patties, seasoned with salt and pepper is the only recipe you need to know.

The other night, I set out to make a better burger at home. One third brisket, one third sirloin, one third chuck, 100% freshly ground by the butcher at Casey's. I gently molded the patties and seasoned them with salt and pepper. Peter the scientist kept temperature over a charcoal grill; medium rare was achieved. Raw and natural blue cheese melted like a crocheted blanket over the patties. There was lettuce, tomato, onion, pickles, ketchup and mustard. My crown was the top of a toasted brioche bun.

It was good. No great. 

In essence, it's easy to make a better burger at home. The problem is consistently delivering a delicious burger under the mandate of being operationally streamlined, standardized, supply chain certified, fiscally sound, sustainable and food safe in thousands of restaurants across the U.S. It's an innovation challenge more complex than anything I tackled in business school. And over the next couple years, I'm supposed to help solve it. 

One chapter at a time, I believe my team and I will get there. I'm up and eager for the job. And despite some longer hours, my family is too.

Lo.

Empathy

This morning at Mass, Father John called in a pitch hitter for the homily. It was Mom. Not mine, but it could have been. I could feel every word she said, every memory she shared, every sentiment she shed.

She ascended to the podium equipped with rehearsed notes that she didn't need. Her definition of motherhood came from her heart, from her Mom, and from her career raising three children of her own.

As she swallowed some of her last words, recounting the passing of her mother, thanking her for a glowing example that enabled her to take such good care of a son with special needs,  I found myself in a position that has become all too familiar over the past year. That of the girl in the audience with tears streaming down her cheeks, wiping her eyes, sniffling, questioning what is wrong with me?

For the record, this never used to happen. I was the stoic one. The one who had dry eyes through the heart wrenching story line. Teary eyed was for my Mom, Aunt Dee Dee, even my sister. Not me.

Something or some things happened though. Hormones, labor, delivery, nursing, more hormones, image deterioration and reevaluation, a little life in my hands, a heart beat resting against mine, a smile made just for me, one or all or some combination thereof made me an audible member of the waterworks club. Motherhood opened a place in my heart that frankly I didn't know existed.

Besides all the dimensions of motherhood that Mom preached about this morning; besides faith, hope and love; I think the most important thing that I've learned during my short tenure as a mother is the true meaning of empathy.

While some people are just born with it; and while I know I had a little bit of it before, being a Mom has connected me with other people and their complicated lives in a deeper way.

My Mom used to tell me, after seeing someone that was a little lower on life than me, 'that was someone's baby.' I would nod. Okay. You could tell she was kind of lost in her thoughts after she said it. I didn't know where she was going. Mary showed me. We are all someone's baby. And to a certain extent, we are all each other parents. Life is too short and too sweet to think otherwise.  

To all mothers in all their various forms and formats; stepmothers, godmothers, aunts, sisters, cousins, friends; my heart is filled with nothing but respect and love for you today and every day.

And to my most super Grandma Shirley: thank you for a lovely day at the Yacht Club.

Lo.

Network

Thursday evening, while wading by the sprinklers of the baby pool at our hotel, I was witness to the best networking strategy I had seen all week. Here was Mary, dressed to impress for the nighttime activity du jour.

She was in a new state and a new climate. She didn't know any other babies and she was by far the smallest fish in the pond. Sure, she had just learned how to walk the walk, but could she talk the talk? I would have thought at thirteen months she'd be intimidated by the large 19-month old pounding through the pool, but Mary walked right up to her and gave her a hug. There was no awkward nod, no hand shake, no card exchange; she went straight for the embrace. The other little girl seemed weak at the knees by the outpouring of unsolicited affection. She returned the gesture with a smile; her parental posse did too; and just like that Mary and the little girl from Tallahassee were fast friends and allies against the aggressive Euro splashers at the other end of the pool.  

If only corporate America was like a wading pool; and if only six days dedicated to networking were as fun as being a one year-old on vacation. 

Last week, plus a day, I was in Orlando, Florida attending the convention to end all conventions. Everyone and their mothers (and my mother for that matter) were there. My job was to shmooze, shpeel and smile. To deliver key messages and mantras. To sell invention, innovation, and every buzzword in between. I was there to network, drink the Coke and inject more ketchup (but not Heinz's) into my veins. Like it or not, I did it all while my Mom took care of Mary.

At times, networking, business blind dating, and strategic small talk seem like the foundations of success in the world of commerce. But like most people who prefer genuine relationships to a burgeoning rolodex, I hate doing it. And what's more, I hate the countless times I find myself awkwardly recalling the weird thing that just happened to spring out my mouth when I attempted to move the dialogue from absent to absorbing. I did not just say that. Okay, talk to you later.

However, last week I felt like I had a leg up. Mary, motherhood, or something to that affect helped moved the needle on my lackluster networking skills. When a certain amount of time, sleep and selfishness are stripped from your schedule; you are left with something real. And that's all you have the energy to share. What comes out of your mouth tends to be a little more human and in essence helps you connect with people a little faster. The line of embarrassing was already crossed when Mary peed on me in the cab to the cocktail party; off went my phony front as I added yet another anecdote to the set list.      

I survived my first Convention with a capital C and looking back feel proud of the work I did and connections I made. What's more, I feel blessed to work for a company that allows me to nurture the most important relationships in my life - the ones at home. And the ones that travel with me.

Lo. 

Home

The other night, around hour 19 of a 20 hour work day, I was 35,000 feet above somewhere in middle America heading home. I was in the last row, in front of the bathroom, 38 aisles away from the door, and next to a middle aisle traveler with an over aggressive left elbow and awful playlist. I wanted to be in my bed. So badly. Visions of ruby slippers, clicking me home, danced through my head to the Pop 2K tunes blaring out of my neighbor's earphones.

Touch down, though seemingly a mile away from the plane's door, meant rest, relief, home sweet home, and a three day Easter weekend.

The problem was in my Mom's eyes, I was only half way there. Home was another couple states away. And I could tell she was sad that I wasn't getting back on a plane to complete a near cross country journey.

Every year, Bing Crosby croons that there's no place like home for the holidays. Which I'm assuming you can translate not only to Christmas, but Easter and a couple other majors. But when you are 30-something and starting your own little family, home because a little less defined. Is it the place you are raising your child? Or the place you were raised? Present or past? Here or over the river and through the woods?

Recently, I've started to equate the notion of home with rest and convenience. It's where my bed and Mary's crib are. It boasts my oatmeal, a jogging stroller, grill accessories and a subscription to Mad Men. It's where I can find an alternative to the outfit that doesn't fit, an endless supply of diapers, and my rules. Home is easy. Which in essence makes the holidays a little easier.

So we spent yet another holiday in and around our house.

And although it felt right - like we were creating our own set of traditions that would help shape Mary's memories of Easter celebrations to come; there was something missing. Namely, my side of the family. Which will always make staying 'home' for a holiday a little hard.

Through the years, I know it will get more difficult too. Especially as I think about the day that Mary closes our red door and opens her own. Maybe we'll only really understand what home means when we're all together again.

Lo.

Tight

Yesterday morning, I had a hard time figuring out what to wear. The problem wasn't only that it was a jeans day (which always makes it twice as hard) or that at second, third and tenth glances, my closet looked tired, but that I was discriminating against reasonable ensembles with a filter that I had picked up recently.

This week, I attended a four-day course detailing every area of marketing, media, merchandising and more that my Company touches. While I learned a lot from the presenters, the bulk of my education came from the attendees - a group primarily made up of (early) 20-something agency girls.

We had specific direction to wear business casual attire all week, which I had been working on. While my tailored response to work ware would have made my old boss proud, I found myself very out of fashion. More precisely, I looked around and realized that I was one of a few women who could breath or bend over.

Tight is in. And for that matter so are tights, or leggings, or whatever you call the stretch pants that no one should ever constitute as business attire. Along with formal spandex, tight cocktail dresses, hosiery free legs, high, HIGH heels, and long blown out hair are all in. Paired with a tight jacket of course. We're not talking day to night ware here; the next stop wasn't going to be Happy Hour, these girls were dressed to go to the Club.

I feel like I'm being unfair though. Because for the record, I used to embrace tight too. I spent the better part of my twenties working out and dieting so if I had it, I was going to flaunt it. And yesterday morning, after seeing just how constricted the world was, I wanted to see if post-baby I could still pair tight on tight and get away with it. I didn't just want to work, I wanted to work it.

Several inappropriate attempts later I gave up and in to the flow of one of my favorite blouses and an unbuttoned blazer. It didn't just look better, it felt a whole lot better. I'm officially over tight and with it have some new guidelines that I'm hoping make their way into the working woman's newest ranks.

1. If you have to pull it down all day, it's too short.   
2. If you can't bend over to pick up the pen you dropped, it's too tight. 
3. If you can't walk normally, they're too high.  
4. And if your over-sized shirt doesn't clear your bum, change out of your leggings immediately.  

Life is tight enough. At work, at home and on the road, I think we all need as much wiggle room as we can get. There are far too many angles to capture.

 

Lo.