The Culinary Addict

Step #1-The Honey Bear

The last year or so of my drinking and using I would ‘come to’ and feel the horrible effects of the chemicals I induced the previous evening. Every morning I would say to myself, “I really need to stop doing THAT. THAT was the last time.” My addiction wasn’t something I aspired to do it gradually became who I was. I didn’t fully realize the depth and unmanageability of my addiction was until I did a 1^st step in rehab. The 1^st step is admitting to myself that I am powerless over something, in this case alcohol and drugs, and my life had become unmanageable. I had to write out 10 examples of an intended purpose as well as provide the details of the results, which were drastically different from the original intention. Here was one of the examples:

My Intention: Go to work, have a couple of drinks, and go home and walk the dog.

The Result: Ended up smoking drugs all night in strange places with crazed people

It was an extremely busy Saturday night of line service at a very popular restaurant in the Pearl District. I was on lead sauté and had an incredible high from a successful service. As intended, I ended my shift with a couple of glasses of Vodka. Once that first cocktail hit my stomach my original intention to have a couple of drinks was a distant memory – A warm comforting sensation traveled from my stomach to my brain which triggered a sensation and internal voice that told me everything was okay and the demoralization I felt in the AM was unimportant because this time was going to be different. It became clear that alcohol simply wasn’t going to be enough reward.

My significant other was on business overseas so my only responsibility was to the dog. After a few drinks, Raj, my fellow cook and using partner suggested we wander down to his favorite local bar to score some blow and see if anything else was available. Oxycontin was my drug of choice but my sources were dry. I never enjoyed cocaine- It clogged my sinuses, made me jittery, paranoid, and initiated massive intestinal cramping resulting in loose stool, however, it was something other than booze. It did, however, stimulate the adrenaline that was present from the evening of service.

Once the narcotics were inhaled I yearned for more, something to remove the paranoia and stomach cramping.-I was rarely content, and always looked for a further pleasure, which typically came in a form of an opiate (eg. Vicodin, Oxycontin, etc…). A long lost friend of Raj’s, Jameson, approached us at the bar. Never having met a Jameson (outside of a bottle of Irish Whiskey), I would say he fit the initial association. He was tallish with long wild dark hair with streaks of gray and leathery hands. Aged Carhart overalls and worn leather work boots covered his large muscular frame. Although dimly lit, his dark dilated eyes displayed an uneasy sense of searching.

Raj turned to me after a short conversation with Jameson and said, “He maybe able to hook us up with some pills on the other side of town.” Not up for driving he offered to give us a lift in his once white worn Dodge van, which was illegally parked directly in front of the bar.

“I do a lot of work with the van so it doesn’t have proper seating.” Jameson added as he opened the side door.

“I’ve got shotgun.” Said Raj.

Shotgun happened to be a freestanding white pickle bucket. The rest of the van was stripped bare and a large car engine rested toward the back which appeared to have been there for some time due to the rust that was formed between the engine and the metal floor.

I attempted to sit in the middle of the floor as Jameson fired up the Dodge and put it in gear. “Hold On!” he yelled as he speed away from the curb. I immediately slammed into the side of the truck and Raj’s bucket slide beneath him. I may as well have been on an ice rink with no shoes. With nothing to hold onto I laid face down spread eagle trying to stay flat as he rounded the next corner. I ended up on the other side. Jameson was enjoying the blaring Pixies and was oblivious to my plight. I crawled towards the engine in hopes of some form of stability.

“Umm, I guess I’ll straddle the engine.” I said while we were at a light

“Cool, just don’t fuck it up.” Jameson yelled back.

Caressing the engine was similar to snuggling up to a couch made of oily broken glass. The engine was and odd shape with no apparent flat surface that had many sharp edges. Furthermore, there was a musty gaseous smell along with a oily grim that coated my gripping appendages. Once I found a manageable spot the van careened around the next corner as the sharp edges cut into my skin and apparel. Often times, when I’m in pain or embarrassed I laugh. I was howling at this point because as I peered forward Jameson and Raj were completely oblivious to my quandary. The van came to a dramatic halt. The back doors were opened by Raj. He question why I was bloodied and wedged between the engine an the side of the van.

“Dude, I need some drugs.” I declared “Where are we?” I mustered as I was assessed my wounds in conjunction with the unfamiliar surroundings.

“We’re here, my friend.” Jameson declared as he slapped me on the back

We were somewhere close-in NE Portland off MLK in front of a long worn orange brick building with fully tinted black windows and doors. Jameson searched through his keys until he got the door open. When I entered those doors I was struck with an unwelcome energy of unease, but the unsettledness and feeling that I was doing something bad added to the allure. Of course, Massive Attack was playing throughout the building.

The large warehouse-style building had multiple rooms on the left and right. Each room had various couches, tables, chairs, pool tables, and garbage strewed about. Between the rooms on the right was a small kitchen where an awful chemical smell exuded. Off to the left was an octagonal room with no windows or openings except for a small doorway cut out of the drywall that went up to my waist with the words “THE DEN” painted above. A warm red light illuminated from within. The whole scene was fairly odd, however, the strangest part was a large wooden crate-like structure the size of a small car directly in the middle of the rooms. All sorts of boards and objects were nailed into the wooden mass.

On top of the structure was a man. A sweaty man. A sweaty skinny man with a crowbar.

He was in his late twenties and had long straight brown hair that was parted in the middle and secured by a red-white-and-blue headband. He had black tights on and cut-off cam-o shorts with large black lace-up work boots. Oddly enough, he had no shirt yet his wiry frame was accessorized with a tool-belt that was supported by yellow suspenders. He was intently swinging the crowbar onto the wooden object apparently trying to destroy the structure.

Jameson had to smack the side of the mass in order to get his attention. “Hey,” he said getting his attention.”These are my boys. They are going to help us tonight. Can you entertain them why I make some calls for them?”

“Sure!” He yelled, and like a caged animal leaped off the structure over our heads landing in a crouching position. He straightened up wiped the sweat off his hands and extending his hand for a shake. He had sunken dark eyes that didn’t quite look me in the eye and a cut wiry build that was drenched with sweat from his crowbar session. Envision Tonto from The Lone Ranger meets Iggy Pop

“My name is Jake,” he said “but you can call me The Honey Bear.”

stay tuned for part #2……

Note From The Culinary Addict:

Yogism from James (my teacher): “Listen to how your body feels today.”

Recent 12-Step Meeting Quote: “The first 8 days sober were great but now I have gone from suicidal to homicidal.”

Quotes:

Me: “Heather your such a cracker.”

Heather: “Your more of a cracker than I am. Your a whit urbanite for christ sake.”e

Me: “I’ve been with a black woman, thats got to count for something.”

Heather: “If I was a dude I’d go out with only black chicks, us crackers are crazy.”

Me: “Greg, have a great Thanksgiving!” Greg: “Fuck that and your turkey!”

-We did a ton of to-go Thanksgiving dinners for our customers. One woman completely forgot so I had to call her to come pick it up. The question is: What was she doing that she forget completely about the food?

-New sous chef Ron is starting this week. He was chef at Food in Bloom for 8 years so it will be nice to have someone with a ton of catering background. Plus, he is a kiwi.

-The woman next to me in hot yoga smelled distinctly like Fritos. She inspired me to make chili tonight.

-Geaux Saints!

Search Engine Terms (words that lead someone to this blog) “Hostess kitchen sex”

Band Name of The Week: Bag of Ham

Present Pandora Kitchen Selection: The Stooges

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