Dear Feastlings,
Unless you just added yourself to the email list, it’s no secret to you that I’m a spiller of my proverbial guts. You’ve heard about what trials and tribulations Feast has faced since long before the pandemic overwhelmed us all, and you probably know more about me personally than was wise to share, but so be it. The emails I send have largely been therapeutic for me; I dare as therapeutic as some therapists I’ve spend good money with. But despite the fact that there’s a torrent of thoughts and observations welling up within me, if my grandmother were still around, she’d be telling me to chest my cards. So I am.
I’m minding myself partly out of respect for the privacy of the people I work with, and also for a skittish feeling I have about the reprisal of the disgruntled, so, gossipy as I can be, I’ll keep my lip buttoned. At the same time, the superstitious part of me sees the possibility of improvement on the horizon, and doesn’t want to jinx anything just now. Or ever, really, despite my wont to do so.
The upshot today, then, is that I’m just going to cover the basics. Lucky you. So here’s a quick link to this Saturday’s wine tasting,
and one to the Thanksgiving carryout menu.
And in the meantime, I’ll hope that everything I’m shutting up about works itself out sooner than later, and that the staffing issues, the supply line issues and the other grumpy quarrelsome spots in all of our respective days continue to resolve themselves bit by bit, and we can all set about the business of more important matters, like being kind and patient and sympathetic to one another. Here goes.
Love,
Doug