blueberry pancakes and the remnant
matthew and i have triumphantly returned from our eastern seaboard gallivanting. part of our trip included a visit to jordan's, a restaurant in bar harbor maine, famous for their wild blueberry pancakes.
my parents, native new englanders, have graced jordan's with their presence many a time. they've learned the tricks... how to order, where to sit, and they said that the "best seat in the house" was at the counter, in direct view of the griddle and "jordan" himself (i'm actually not sure if his name is jordan, but he's definitely the founder and owner of this fine establishment).
what we witnessed in the 30 minutes it took us to devour said blueberry pancakes, is hard to describe. the place is filled to the brim morning after morning with a healthy mixture of both tourists and locals. there is no back kitchen, and all the food preparations take place right before your eyes. there is no electronic device for the waitstaff to type in their orders. there is no paper trail to be passed back to the kitchen. what there is, however, is a process that is beautiful to watch.
one after another, the waitstaff step back towards the main griddle, where jordan is on pancake and hashbrown duty, and his 2 fellow griddlers feverishly prepare omelettes, waffles, eggs-to-order, and many other breakfast pleasantries. the waitstaff approach and say "can i order please?" to which, silence from jordan means that they can. if jordan says "wait...", that means he's a little too busy at the moment to pay attention to the order. and he needs to pay attention because he doesn't write anything down. every kind of bizarre breakfast order from "double order of blues" to "easy over eggs, side of hash, one blue" is committed to his memory, no pen or paper is involved in this.
maybe this isn't amazing to you, but it was to me. there was something beautiful about this 50-something-aged man in a ripped up old t-shirt, his wedding ring covered in pancake batter and fingernails permanently stained a sultry shade of purple from the wild blueberries. i kept thinking, how simple and beautiful it was to watch him, that there is no small task in this world. thousands of people come into his restaurant every day, just to eat his pancakes. and at the end of the day, his hands are stained purple as a reminder of his efforts.
now that we have returned home, and my experience at jordan's is quickly becoming nothing more than a 4x6 on iPhoto, it has come time for me to face the reality that i am now unemployed. i am not only unemployed, but have no idea what to do with this next chapter of my life. dreams of grandeur pervade as i think about the word "career"... what big illustrious thing could i do next to change the world, to be remembered greatly, to be honored, thanked, seen.
but what i learned from my blueberry pancake experience, was that maybe there's nothing wrong with a little simplicity for a change. to simply believe that i have something to offer, and that no matter how small, it is enough. maybe i won't change the world or be remembered greatly. but maybe i could make blueberry pancakes for some people who are hungry. maybe the remnant would be nothing more than the purple stains on my fingers. and maybe that would be enough.
my parents, native new englanders, have graced jordan's with their presence many a time. they've learned the tricks... how to order, where to sit, and they said that the "best seat in the house" was at the counter, in direct view of the griddle and "jordan" himself (i'm actually not sure if his name is jordan, but he's definitely the founder and owner of this fine establishment).
what we witnessed in the 30 minutes it took us to devour said blueberry pancakes, is hard to describe. the place is filled to the brim morning after morning with a healthy mixture of both tourists and locals. there is no back kitchen, and all the food preparations take place right before your eyes. there is no electronic device for the waitstaff to type in their orders. there is no paper trail to be passed back to the kitchen. what there is, however, is a process that is beautiful to watch.
one after another, the waitstaff step back towards the main griddle, where jordan is on pancake and hashbrown duty, and his 2 fellow griddlers feverishly prepare omelettes, waffles, eggs-to-order, and many other breakfast pleasantries. the waitstaff approach and say "can i order please?" to which, silence from jordan means that they can. if jordan says "wait...", that means he's a little too busy at the moment to pay attention to the order. and he needs to pay attention because he doesn't write anything down. every kind of bizarre breakfast order from "double order of blues" to "easy over eggs, side of hash, one blue" is committed to his memory, no pen or paper is involved in this.
maybe this isn't amazing to you, but it was to me. there was something beautiful about this 50-something-aged man in a ripped up old t-shirt, his wedding ring covered in pancake batter and fingernails permanently stained a sultry shade of purple from the wild blueberries. i kept thinking, how simple and beautiful it was to watch him, that there is no small task in this world. thousands of people come into his restaurant every day, just to eat his pancakes. and at the end of the day, his hands are stained purple as a reminder of his efforts.
now that we have returned home, and my experience at jordan's is quickly becoming nothing more than a 4x6 on iPhoto, it has come time for me to face the reality that i am now unemployed. i am not only unemployed, but have no idea what to do with this next chapter of my life. dreams of grandeur pervade as i think about the word "career"... what big illustrious thing could i do next to change the world, to be remembered greatly, to be honored, thanked, seen.
but what i learned from my blueberry pancake experience, was that maybe there's nothing wrong with a little simplicity for a change. to simply believe that i have something to offer, and that no matter how small, it is enough. maybe i won't change the world or be remembered greatly. but maybe i could make blueberry pancakes for some people who are hungry. maybe the remnant would be nothing more than the purple stains on my fingers. and maybe that would be enough.
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