Canadian whisky enthusiast

08/08/2021

wisers red letter 2020 release



the problem with grocery stores: chippawa and punishment



i guess strange things never really take a break in the news and heres a recent example: in the early summer a lobster fisherman was coming up to the surface when suddenly, his vision went black. he took a moment to wonder if he had died in the water, then realized that not only was he still alive, but swallowed by a humpback whale.

he was not injured, but he was about to be swallowed and dissolved by the whales stomach acid, so he held on and thrashed about, causing the whale to surface and spit him out, surviving the whole incident with a cool story to tell the grandkids.

and whenever near tragedy strikes our news in a humorous way, we often hear that the producers of p**nographic movies tend to approach these survivors and try to make a few bucks making a skin flick parodying the event and giving it some stupid title. although ‘the man that was swallowed whole’ was flattered, he turned down his opportunity in p**n because he was so loyal to his lovely wife. the same producer ran the idea passed some of his female cast that he might introduce a whale into the film and four of them quit on the spot, one turned to the catholic church and another went mad, burned her hair off and s**t naked in the streets.

and speaking of giant dicks nobody has any use for, connor mc gregor did something very unusual for an irishmen; he punched an innocent person over a shot of whisky in a pub.

one night a man was in a pub, enjoying a drink with a friend when mr mc gregor came in and offered the bar a round of shots from his whisky brand, proper 12. one person declined and was subsequently punched by conor. the man left with a swollen head and is also banned from re entering the bar, for life, because conor mc gregor then bought the pub and banished the man he punched.

speaking of getting kicked out of places for being harassed and assaulted, i'm still waiting for my official restraining order (wrongfully)barring me from entering the only grocery store in chippawa after publicly threatening to decapitate one of their employees. further, i had posted an experience i had in the grocery store and shared it on one of our chippawa pages to defend my stance. as you're about to see, i am an innocent man, just trying to buy jello to make edible drugs that are attractive to children when a couple of guys were up to no good and started making trouble in my neighborhood grocery store. so please read our local chippawa news delivered by the eyewitness, victim and chippawas top freelance journalist, me.

i was in foodland just a couple days ago. i walked down an aisle fairly quickly, because i'm still young, able, and incredibly fit. i arrived at the checkout just before a couple beside me and i offered that they go ahead of me.

as they sauntered ahead, the man in the couple turned and pointed at my shirt. now, what i have in common with most of the fine, beautiful citizens of chippawa is that i, just like you, wear shirts. we all wear shirts. it's what bonds us as chippawanians. shirts. i happen to be wearing my hartford whalers shirt. it's grey and has a green W on it.

the man stretched his arm toward me and pointed a crusty, arthritic finger at my shirt and said something derogatory about how i shouldn't be allowed in the store wearing a grey shirt with a green W on it. without addressing his aggression, i smiled and said 'as long as i don't have a shirt with a blue leaf on it, i'm sure we can all get along just fine, right?' and i reassured my friendliness with a quiet chuckle.

well, apparently he happens to like shirts with giant blue leaves on the front of them as this man started telling me about how in his day he would've beaten the snot out of me because he likes shirts with blue leaves and i like shirts with green W's. the man's female company pulled him by the shirt into their aisle so they could quickly go home and eat cold ravioli out of the can and drink cheap gin until the night ends in a police officer breaking up a domestic dispute on the front lawn of their hovel, adorned with recycling boxes left out for four days.

naturally, with my god given upper body strength and massive quads i could have pulled myself on top of the ice machine left handed and jumped on top of his head until he stood 2 and a half feet tall. instead, i selected the aisle adjacent to them and spent my last three minutes in the store speaking to the friendly blonde cashier about how kit-kats are the superior snacking candy compared to rolos. she disagreed and i could have effortlessly decapitated her with a bag of ice, but i was raised to accept that people have diverse opinions and i should respect their choices. i wouldn't even care if she liked shirts with blue leaves on the front.

now, just to conclude, i'm very sorry i can't post a feel good story about how the guy ahead of me paid for my coffee, or how i donated empties to the legion, but this actually happened and i found it strange for chippawa. i'm usually overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers in my lovely village and i was slightly shocked that a four-nippled, french-canadian, half-measure of a man with a stupid hair cut wanted to exchange punches about a tall, physically exceptional, kinda stoned, fantastically good looking man wearing a grey shirt with a green W on it. but, i turn the other cheek and i gobbless him.

and happy new year to you all. gobbless.

and that’s the story. to keep you guys up to date, I have walked into the foodland quite belligerent and inebriated in order to purchase more alcohol, so im guessing ill be ok to go in and avoid being arrested, but it doesn’t excuse the fact that the lcbo wont be carrying the newest version of red letter from wisers. Besides, red letter is only available to buy from the distillery.



alc. 45%

nose:
this is the definition of a creamy vanilla nose. creamy corn, corn cob, mint leaves and gummy mint drops. egg nog. this is clean, round, heavy and thick with honey, yellow corn and a vanilla bomb. cigar to***co, vanilla frosting, and rye all cased in with the right amount of charred wood. honeycomb and roasted nuts. the liquid itself has weight and thickness. it has presence in the glass.

palate:
the entry is corn and vanilla, then comes darker brown notes, root beer, cola, molasses, baking spice, honey. big corn, vanilla and spice, a touch of dill. mint gummies, bright red berries, sweet tarts and a prickly, tannic oak finish that hangs on. the oak is appropriate throughout until the end where it turns up to a hot/sweet ginger. the texture is perfect. the flavour is heavy, creamy and soft on the edges, cohesive until the spicy end, which stops before it becomes too hot.

overall: 96
very familiar to the big corn whiskies of canadian legend: canadian rockies, cc 40, ninety 20, but this is very well done. dialed in and honed to a very deliberate point.

this is what a 100$ bottle is. this is the satisfaction a bottle should bring a rye lover.

please note:

a distillery only release, only available to ontario residents.

as opposed to earlier versions of red letter, this is a 15 year old blend, finished in virgin barrels for 150 days.

06/20/2021

Wisers 15 year old

122 days of fear: surviving a summer with the gardena watering system

in the news, one mexican drug cartel in particular has made ripples for declaring war on the mexican elite drug enforcement team. they have stepped forward and announced that for every cartel member, mule, runner, manufacturer, etc, essentially anybody in their team that gets arrested or captured, the cartel will kill 2 officers.

scary.

more so, since the elite mexican cartels are very well organized and surrounded by corrupt officials, they also have their finger on the pulse of the police force. not only do they have advanced knowledge of raids or busts, but they have the - personal home addresses - of the police officers. members of the cartel are storming into officers homes, binding the officer and their family(kids too) and torturing them to death, dismembering, disemboweling, decapitating, then displaying the desecrated corpses in public as a show of force. it is very common for a couple dozen decapitated heads to roll into a busy nightclub as a show of force in contested cartel territory.

if your mommy or daddy is a cop the bad man will kidnap you at school and systematically cut your fingers off with garden sheers, on film, to display to the family while they physically torture the cop themselves, effectively adding psychological terror to physical punishment.

hows that for a lead, eh? speaking of being attacked in our homes, recently in chippawa news, an individual or small group of organized chippawanians have hijacked our pages and stirred up a little chaos themselves. i have yet to identify this person or people, but occasionally they flood and overwhelm our feeds with insane and offensive content. they work as a team and pick out certain folks that are regular chippawa FB personalities. their profiles all share the same persons name, and they all have odd pictures of mazda miatas(on fire, toy cars, demolished, etc) and they all call themselves the admin and threaten to ban anybody who questions them. there's also a lot of lowbrow cm jokes.

very strange stuff, these digital facebook assaults, but, they're simply doing gods work. i can't help feel like they've almost taken our team's lead and harassed the citizens of chippawa in their own homes, using my own methods of antagonizing. after digesting all that mumbo jumbo, i decided it's probably time to put the phone down and go outside.

but hey, the warm weather is here and that means that it's time for my gardens to become a priority on my list of chores. it's a lot of hard work to maintain a front garden, an herb garden, my black currant garden and then head down the road to my big vegetable garden, where i have to carry large buckets of rain water to feed my plants. it's hard work. there's a lot of lifting, raking, shoveling, lugging and tugging.

luckily, last year for father's day my wife had picked up a miracle watering system; the gardena watering system. it's supposed to make the crushing reality that you're a middle aged man on the verge of an exertion heart attack less likely, due to its advanced technology. it makes all items fitted with gardena products universal and easy to attach and remove hoses and accessories. the steps are pretty easy, just use some garden sheers to systematically cut the threaded ends off your hose and attach a cinch/clamp that adapts a universal male/female connection. you can just snap all sorts of things on and off in a second, even less time than a second. but, in reality the homewares elite have declared war on your shed: the cinch/clamp doesn't always fit so snug, so it comes loose, then falls off after a little use, which often means that you have a heavy flowing stream of water gushing out of your external faucet, wasting water and soaking your houses foundation. it'll also be on the other end of your hose, 100 feet away, effectively adding psychological terror to physical punishment.

so, now you see the one small error when using the gardena water system; it's faulty and YOU JUST CUT THE THREADS OFF YOUR FU***NG HOSE. YOU IDIOT. YOU FU***NG IDIOT!! YOU JUST CUT THE THREADS OFF YOUR FU***NG HOSE AND NOW YOU CANT WATER S**T, BUD. oh, just go get another hose? we're in fu***ng lockdown stupid. you fu***ng stupid idiot simpleton turd. LOCKDOWN. you cant just go get another fu***ng hose. you have to order it, curbside pick it up, or maybe amazon it. it's days away and you need to water those plants today chief, but you cut the ends off your fu***ng hose, and now you have to get another and since gardena is an organized company, surrounded by corrupt corporations, they have their finger on the pulse of watering systems, youre forced to buy their product again. worse, since you had to order it from amazon, they now have your - personal home address - as well as email and they have the ability to storm your personal life and digitally harass you. this, this must be some form of gods work.

there's a reason companies don't associate 'quit smoking' pills with ex-wrestlers anymore and it's the same reason they won't associate our team with the gardena watering system; because after using the gardena watering system i fear for my families safety. if there were a venn diagram of people who use the gardena watering system/people you should fear, it would be a perfect circle. after years of abstaining from ci******es im back to a pack a day. the gardena watering system deliberately makes you compromise your hose, only to monopolize the necessity for a new hose, because its non-compatible. non-compatible! i was apoplectic. apoplectic! i was so angry i didn't s**t solid for a week. now, i'm in physio, regularly practicing re**al keigels to strengthen my butt, so angry fart water doesn't just fall into my shorts whenever i see a row of shrubs.

now, you might think it's the second life for hose repair, if you get a hole in your hose you can just shorten it and attach the cinch/clamp on to save the rest of your hose, and that's smart thinking. on the other hand you just went out and spent money on a faulty watering system that's going to blow the end of off that fu**er and start flooding your backyard before you sprint the 83 feet to get back to the faucet, because it's non-compatible YOU GOD DAMN CAVEMAN. YOU JUST SPENT MORE MONEY ON A PLASTIC PIECE OF S**T THATS GOING TO CAUSE YOUR DIVORCE. worse, is that after all that you still have to go get a new hose, doubling your trips, and expenditures, and common people are debating capitalizing pharmaceutical companies for making profit off the covid vaccine and you're out buying TWO NEW NON ESSENTIAL HOSES YOU FU***NG F**K. essentially, for every gardena water system, accessory, attachment, clamp, etc, you capture, they will kill two of your hoses. ok, look, perhaps i'm just a little high strung since my wife got me this thing. it's been a nightmare. this year my wife bought me a brand new hose, a gardena brand hose, already fitted with gardena accessories. since they're factory assembled they won't fall apart. thing is, this hose is only 50 feet long, so i can't even walk it out front far enough to WATER MY OWN GARDEN, ahem.... so i don't have to get frustrated wrestling with it. win/win. this father's day, just get your dad what he needs: booze. besides, you what has booze in it? wisers 15 year old, that’s what.

Alc. 40%

Nose:
The egg nog, nutmeg, dusty toffee and rye spice are reminiscent of wisers older brother, the 18 year old. Sweet and spicy, full of yellow stone fruits, orange gummies, sawdust and dry wood. Lumberyard. Artificial coconut, lacquer and ginger bread.

Palate:
Effervescent, tingles on the tongue with sweet ginger ale, dusty toffee, orange peel, sour rye grains, beer, fresh sawdust, although, unfortunately light on the palate. Rotting apples, dark berries, balanced wood spice and leaves with pleasant bitter citrus pith and mint, adding to the complexity of this whisky. non-evolving, but this slips down the throat very smoothly.

Overall: 87
Very good. No gimmicks.

06/13/2021

05/30/2021

depressing beer review - double up! espresso dark stout

we only have so many days

the question always distills down to 'when your body becomes old with age after living a full life, would you rather lose your body or your mind?' would you rather remain sharp but lose your ability to run, jump, walk, hug, serve a loved one, feed yourself, or even clean yourself? or would you rather remain completely mobile, if not a bit slower, and slowly lose your own ability to think for yourself, communicate, retain memory, recognize faces, understand where you are in a room?

either decision doesn't matter: it is not a decision you get to make.

recently i have discovered an ambitious musical performance that walks a person through the stages of dementia. many, many great experiences in my life revolve around music, but this one has shaken me to my core and broken me down to a blubbering baby, unable to regulate my handle of emotion. this album made me cry and it even went so far into my psyche to awaken old childhood fears.

the six albums in this compilation represent six stages of decline with dementia. there are no words, except what is described in the liner notes along the artwork on the album. the song titles tell an ambiguous story, which helps piece together what the artist is presenting; that you are hearing a musical interpretation of dementia. the artwork on the album covers even seem to shift and degrade as the project spins downward into an inevitable heartbreak. in total, this is a completely immersive 6 1/2 hour project. if you'd like to follow along check out the album 'everywhere at the end of time' by the caretaker.

stage 1: i've just heard from the doctor that i have dementia. the brain will degrade and fail, but i don't believe it; everything's fine. where did i put my glasses? in the cupboard? aah that's silly, must have been distracted. ha.

a vinyl record crackles on the turntable as some golden era ballroom music plays. swaying horns, tinkling piano keys and fun rhythm helps recall the good ol days, when times were simple.

nothing really seems wrong at this point. the music is crisp and clear, aside from a few crackles and pops from a dusty vinyl record.

stage 2: those darn glasses ended up getting lost again. i typically put them in the same spot, but i've checked it twice, right? better check again. oops, they've been there the whole time.

dust has settled into some cracks on the record and the crackling is still there, a little louder, but the record still plays just fine. listen to those horns! beautiful harmonies.... didn't we just hear that song? nah, i just love that song so much, i thought it already played.

the songs played tend to repeat a little from the previous album, with a little reverberation, or echo of the last note. this represents the patient remembering the music of the good ol days, maybe not exactly as it was, but it's a pretty good recollection. at one point a song ended abruptly and unexpectedly. i found myself speaking to the radio speakers and pleading 'no, not yet. don't start messing up the memory of the song, please, i still have time.'

stage 3: a nice man drove me back home while my wife is tapping her toe on the driveway. she looks upset. what are they talking about? what? i'm confused? why would they say that? i wasn't lost! i was just out for a walk when the nice gentleman offered me a ride back home.

the songs played and replayed from the first two albums are still playing. the echo and reverberation is enhanced, very strong, lots of crackle. at some points the songs end very peacefully and taper off to a slow fade before drifting back in to a new song, or sometimes the song ends too quickly, mid-note and crashes into the next song which sounds like it started 4 seconds ago. sometimes elements of two songs are mashed together and play at the same time. often twinkling piano keys make a serene feeling of calm, just before turning to a haunting echo chamber, giving the listener a little treat before punishing them with spooky fright.

is this how it always was? is this just how it is to be remembered?

stage 4: since i've been moved into this new resort i see a few people i remember. my wife comes by often, and a couple other people i don't remember keep coming by and asking if i'm ok, asking if i'm enjoying the food or getting along with my new friends that live here. i don't really know them, but they're pleasant. this retirement home living isn't so bad after all.

the album structure has switched from an album built from 45 minutes of many 5 minute long tracks to a structure of 90 minute albums, cut into 4 tracks, or songs. the genre of music used has switched from ballroom dance music to white noise, dark ambient noise, harsh noise and drone. the sound heard is like frantically tuning into an old fm radio and finding it in tune, only before the frequency is lost again. the long tracks are frightening and confusing, grasping at little bits of clarity(representing moments of lucidity) before losing the grasp and the music cannot be found in tune again. at one point piano keys fall like dominos and give a warm feeling of peace, which is calming and lasts 20 minutes, before throwing the listener back into harsh regurgitated noise.

this is called post awareness confusion. the dementia patient no longer has lucidity or control of their own thoughts and memories. this is a very frightening time for the patient, to forget where they are, many, many times in a day. fright turns to confusion and fear, and eventually isolation

stage 5: every minute is a living nightmare. strange people push me into a chair, strip my clothes off, wipe me with a wet cloth, dress me. they don't talk to me, they talk to each other and force spoonfuls of cold or hot liquid into my mouth. people i don't know surround me. i want to be home again. i'm frightened. i'm unsure. i don't know what i've done to deserve this.

more static, more loss of stable sound, more crackle, further degradation of any recognizable instrument. if there were any recognizable moments of clarity it would be the theme for the wicked witch of the west played while you are alone in a forest, the sun is about to disappear and you can see pairs of green eyes with slit predatory pupils through the trees.

patient is past any hope. their mind is in a desperate struggle to comprehend their surroundings. tracks are titled 'a confusing fog so thick you forget forgetting' and 'advanced plaque entanglements'

stage 6: i am underwater. no one hears a single word i say.

the final album is simply 84 minutes of dark ambient noise. a constant down tuned humming, intense vinyl crackle and a very murky horn plays a stretched tone for minutes at a time. it's sounds as if the patient is completely submerged. there is no structure. there is no light. death is mercy. after 84 minutes of brutal, self punishment, a clear 5 minutes of choir singing. is it the last thought remembered? or is it the ascension to heaven? the singing stops. the white noise stops. the crackle stops. 60 seconds of complete silence.

long decline is over.

place in the world fades away.

alc. 6.5%

nose:
dark, roasted malt, a bit sour, coffee. artificial coffee sensation. dashes of espresso and cream. a whiff of sour vanilla.

palate:
full, mouthfilling palate rich with coffee/espresso flavour and a taste of powdered milk. roasted malt, some sourness, but the beer is overpowered with sweet/sour coffee and artificial dairy.

overall:
i will not be buying this again

please note:
the album is from the caretaker. it is titled 'everywhere at the end of time' it can be found on youtube, or bandcamp.

as a strong recommendation, i plead with you to only listen to this project if you are in a solid mental space, or usually unaffected by music, or mental health issues. the ending of the album forced me to tears on a couple occasions and rekindled my fear of the dark, something i had not experienced since childhood.

05/23/2021

cwe failures: useless/incomplete/disconnected/delete

sometimes we f**k up. sometimes we get a great idea but fail to capitalize on it, just like this article based entirely on black sabbath. in short, here's half a crappy article.

fluff

one day a buddy of mine took me to go get stoned. he pointed to a little forest, and he said 'i know a spot' and he took me to this tiny oasis: a small patch of trees, an old dilapidated mill, set on a hard road built by a spiral architect, a scum covered swamp, the sun barely peeking through a hole in the sky. didn't sound great from the description, but it was a classic spot to smoke.

we finished up when it started to rain a bit and we heard an old church bell in the distance. 'better go now, we'll get soaked. let's make sure we don't start, too late.' i nodded and we headed out. when we passed a giant brick wall, with 'sleep' sprayed in paint on the side, i spotted a woman in a black cloak. a loner? an evil woman? no. couldn't be. i walked to talk to her but she disappeared. she's gone. it was as if she was never there. 'am i going insane?' i thought to myself.

a day later i went back, and peered behind the wall of sleep into the sleeping village to look for the woman. she stood by her lonesome, staring into the void of the green pond.

------

the relationship started as any other, and soon we were in love. i was to marry the lady, lucy. the wedding was fabulous, and grand. we ate rat salad, and wore red pants. the guests included a sword wielding dwarf, and some fairies, wearing boots(her side of the family).

she bore 5 children; william, john, tony and giza. ronnie, the runt of the children passed away very early in life. now he watches us, perched on a silver mountain. oh how we loved each other as a family for many years. the boys all learned to play instruments and started a band to pass the time.

as time went on i was going through changes. my sight grew dim, i felt as if i were snowblind. i went to my doctor as i fell ill and he told me i was dying, i was living too fast. 'it's the symptom of the universe' he stated. 'son, you've gone too far. smoking and tripping is all that you do.'

'super...... not.' i said with a failing smirk.

as i lay on my death bed, she hovered over me. she pointed a little bit of finger at me and proposed a confession. 'i've been poisoning you. i wanted you to die with me.'

'i know,' i responded. 'i'm only 40. i'm not supposed to die from natural causes yet.

as my body failed, i started to cough. 'a-huh, huh, huh, huh, huh'

lucy, staring down on me, spread her wings.

05/16/2021

down and out in chippawa and niagara falls

i'm 38, and i'm in pain. my body has deteriorated after 25 years of self abuse and hard work. first, i started physiotherapy for my back, then my knee gave up. this comes as no surprise and happens to every career chef, but the next choice is crucial and permanent: do i admit my body has failed, and bow out from a higher echelon of cooking, or do i self medicate and push through the pain? some chefs ignore their ego, stepping down to a lesser tier of cooking and the others can lose much more, fighting off pain with alcohol and drugs, and they can get tied up with their own demons.

i've taken the cue to leave fine dining and enter the next step of a cooks life: management and long term care.

that guy down there, in the picture, cuddling the elastic ball, that's me and a good buddy. that was me, anyway, 3 years ago. sure i've lost a couple pounds since then, got a haircut and shaved, but i am also very different. i'm happy. when this whole story ends though, there likely won't be a happy ending. i just hope i'm still around to write the finish in a few years.

for me now, there is no 50,000$ chandelier, there are no white truffles, no line caught halibut, no exotic cheese, no 4,000$ ounces of caviar. no medals, no awards or stars. no camera crews filming me scowling at a celebrity chef as he's filmed, acting like he's spending a day cooking in our kitchen. no more beautiful women running food out in cocktail dresses, no more 10,000$ bottles of bordeaux on our list or getting wasted on 20$ cocktails or nipping after work 60$ shots of cognac in the lounge. no more drunk millionaires walking into our kitchen, tipping us with 100's, and nobody calls me chef anymore, not without laughing out loud afterwards, anyway. instead ive traded in my chef uniform for pleated slacks and a button down shirt, tucked into my leather belt. and, i'm looking at a laptop, choosing between two styles of plastic 6 ounce juice cups to order in. plastic, because the residents can't be trusted with glassware.

this is how it happened.

3 years ago when i said my final goodbye to my mentor, who left us for greater opportunities, i wondered how long i could tolerate a nosediving restaurant with a dwindling skill set and two glue sniffing stooges running a well budgeted, very high end italian restaurant. it wasn't long. working in a giant resort with 4,000 employees and 400 cooks, i was one of 20 cooks hand picked from a panel of 3 chef-judges. my job was to cater to the very rich who took private jets to stay with us and we went to every length to make sure they never left our resort until they were near broke, full, hungover, and f**ked limp. invariably, as the food went downhill they stopped coming. we didn't get reservations from them anymore. the reason being that over a couple years i watched the coworkers i respected leave the new team in frustration and the restaurant started spiraling downward under the new team. the two new chefs that took over the management side were two people that i took down in competition, who lifted my ideas and put them on their menu, and the effort and skill of our now-revolving team kept them safe in a position i wanted. they had one thing i didn't though, and it's why they had their position held above my head. it's the reason they smirked when i complained; they had their red seal, their trade certificate. something i never had the courage to write, something that never held me back until now.

i was in physical pain and now mentally, i suffered. it was like the springsteen line, i wanna change my hair, my clothes, my face. in my own typical fashion of procrastination, instead of focusing on my career i vented my frustration through writing, pointlessly, to a small audience. eventually i made the leap, and i did what the majority of miserable, misanthropic, self loathing malcontents never do: i changed, and i changed the world around me.

i started to jettison: people, vices, writers, family, friends. decades long relationships, gone. mentors, gone. the more i learned about the people who wrote whisky, the more i spoke to them and learned what made them tick, i started to resent them, despise them. i cut myself out of their ( #)fabric. at the first whiff of toxicity, rot, cancer, something, anything, was lopped off with prejudice and forgotten, no matter how dear it once was. i wanted a fresh start, nobody to hold me back. my anger and sadness turned to ambition and determination.

most of us at the restaurant were smart. we were intelligent people who knew the moving cogs of our industry and were skilled enough to start our own little ventures. i watched friends and teammates make great strides in life: some of us became chefs, a couple moved on to manage hotels, or become consultants, taught in school, and my passed chef started his own restaurant and it's ranked as a top 100 in canada. a cwe consultant ran for parliament(he still jokes joe exotic scored a higher percentage of votes). another cwe employee was winning awards in every local chicken wing competition. my wife will achieve her masters with high honors. my dog graduated obedience and recall classes. my son is experiencing great strides as the world unfolds in front of him. some of our dishwashers even moved on to management. i saw all this happening and i wanted to join in too. i scored a lackluster 82/100 on my red seal 17 years after college and put in my 6 weeks notice that i was resigning after 8 hard years of dedicated service in this resort.

i entered a high end retirement resort as the director of culinary service, a very nice title, because calling somebody a sucker doesn't sound as appealing. life was fast here and i did not stick around long.

something was foul when i interviewed. why they wanted me so badly was a red flag, why the last guy walked and took his staff, why i stood out when there should have been a lot of capable chefs applying for this job. when i started counting all the red flags i saw i was already in deep. it was a su***de job, but i still accepted it.

my first meeting with the residents was chaotic with unexpected results: we all talked about what we wanted to see happen moving forward with the quality of food. the meeting ended with my boss cutting off the chat, some residents fighting and a couple others crying.

in short time i was the boss i wanted to have: i was kind, keen in my craft, knowledgeable, sensitive to others needs, i lead from the front, my office door was open to everybody. i adjusted staff to meet their strengths and i touted my own strengths. i built confidence in my staff. my team flipped retirement dining on its head in niagara. while nobody was watching too closely, i also made a tidy little profit too.

my last meeting with the residents i would shake hands with them and they would praise me for cooking things that reminded them of childhood and open their eyes to wonderful new delights. the only tears were of joy, but this was also at a very high personal cost. alas, after 6 months of 80 hour weeks, my wife needing a present husband, my son missing me and my dog not recognizing me, i missed my grandfathers wake, i lost 40 pounds, i got up, packed my bag, filled it with whatever i could steal and walked. matter of fact i walked out of the home and an hour later i was interviewing at a posh hotel. i would land the job taking control of a room 30+ floors up and enter what will be remembered as the happy era with my family.

a month later a fairly unknown and foreign virus would enter that very same home that i just left.