Peace Dove

Hope for 2026

Wishing the new year brings peace to our crazy world.

Mono Print: Peace Dove

It has come to my attention that many of you did not receive my post, Comfort Food. So skip the following if you have already read it.

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Comfort Food

On opening the big wooden doors to the Santa Cruz Hotel, I had to consciously stop myself from salivating. After months of subsisting on government cheese, white rice and soy beans, the heady aroma of Italian food made me desperate to ace the job interview. I was dressed in my only nice outfit in an attempt to not look like a dirty hippy, not that I saw myself as one, but my mother might disagree.

The restaurant was on the bottom floor of an old hotel, no longer in use. The dark interior glistened with oak booths, deep red upholstery and crisp white tablecloths. Napkins were folded into fans, silverware and plates placed in anticipation of the onslaught of nightly guests.

After scanning my references, the owner, Big Annie, eyed me up and down. “You’re hired,” she said with a warm grin. This I attributed to the fact that I was also a big girl, capable of lugging massive amounts of food out of the kitchen to the hungry customers who didn’t just want to eat, they wanted to over indulge in incredibly delicious food, because Annie was a fabulous cook. She had trained a chef from Cuba and one from Mexico City to replicate her Italian recipes, but on special occasions, she took out a lovely copper pan to make velvety smooth pudding called Zabaglione. It was out of this world, except maybe in Italy.

Needless to say, I gladly dawned an ugly gold and white polyester uniform and enjoyed feasting on employee lunches, which consisted of as much pasta and rich minestrone soup as I could gobble. The house-made raviolis, cannelloni, and spaghetti sent my heart aflutter. I needed to eat, because the shear energy required to be a successful waitress was indeed high. Most people ordered the full course meal: fresh bread, antipasti, minestrone soup, followed by salad, then pasta, a meat dish and finally dessert.

The rumor was that Annie’s father was the former body guard and chauffeur of Al Capone, before Al’s mandatory stay on Alcatraz Island. Thus it made sense that Annie was concerned about my safety. When she learned that I rode to work on a bicycle, she warned me, “Honey, you could get robbed. Hide your tip money inside your bra before you leave at night.” Having never used my bra as a purse, I ignored her motherly advice.

The older waitresses especially loved Annie, because she made sure they got the big tippers. That said, Irene, Helen, and June were way better waitresses than me. They didn’t need to write down orders even for large parties. They also knew the town’s inside gossip. The biggest scoop was that Annie at 75 had decided to retire. Her employees were not happy to see her sell her restaurant to two flashy dressed, young men, who both drove expensive red sports cars. Older waitresses worried about losing their jobs and being replaced by younger workers.

The new owners called a staff meeting and instituted a terrible split shift schedule with reduced staffing. Though so far, no one was fired. This under staffing resulted in stressful shifts where I felt like a chicken without its you-know-what. The three hour break between lunch and dinner service was time not paid. Additionally, the owners made it clear that they were not happy with the 35 cent increase in the minimum wage, so planned to find more ways to economize the operation.

Spirits sank. A happy workplace no longer existed. It was time to unionize. Unfortunately, the bosses got wind of our organizing and scared the shit out of the older workers by threatening them with pink slips. Their mortgages, bills and childcare expenses would be jeopardized. Needless to say, the union vote went down to defeat.

Meanwhile, every time I parked my bicycle outside the restaurant, I was overwhelmed with evil thoughts of inserting a very sharp knife into their sports car’s whitewall tires. These feelings intensified after I was selected to serve a banquet for the contestants in the Miss California Pageant. While my two bosses acted like hormonal teenage boys flitting and flirting around the room, I lugged massive amounts of food before emaciated young women who picked at their food like delicate little birds, afraid of actual food. I had to comfort myself by inhaling a loaf of bread.

Then one hot day came my ultimate embarrassment. I had to move out of one rental and into another on a split shift day. Between shifts, I worked like a demon carrying heavy boxes, dressed in my ugly gold and white polyester uniform. Apparently the fabric didn’t breath too well. When I returned for my evening shift, one of my bosses told me that I stink and that I better start showering before coming to work. Irene over heard the conversation and kindly lent me some deodorant.

Having a boss, who was only a few years older, tell me I had BO was the last straw. I quit. Looking back, I regret that I didn’t slit his tires on my way out. Or join the protesters demonstrating outside the Miss California Pageant. The activist dressed in outfits made of raw steak and hot dogs to protest the treatment of the contestants. Because those poor pageant girls really needed to comfort themself by inhaling some bread along side a nice plate of warm pasta. It sure worked for me, because I quickly found a job at another Italian restaurant.