I've Always Wanted To.  .  .

Try Rock Climbing

Shut Up and Climb

There was a rock climbing gym in San Francisco. All the bad asses went there to climb and people around town would smugly say, “yeah man I climb, do you?” It was a status symbol. If you left chalk covered and sweaty you were one of the cool kids with the insane back muscles. I went there for yoga and would longingly look at the climbers wishing I could join them but too intimidated to try. It felt like stepping out on a dance floor full of professionals, watching them with admiration from afar but convinced you could never be one of them.

Rock climbing has long been on my list of things I’ve always wanted to do. This time, with determination, a friend and I waltzed into a local climbing gym with our game time faces on.

I started taking off my flip-flops to put on the climbing shoes. Our instructor, Ben, looked at me in surprise and disgust saying, “you don’t have any socks?” Suddenly, I remembered what a climber friend said about rental shoes- they are “totally foul, nasty and smell terrible, you don’t want to put those things on, buy some if you ever climb.” Whoops, good advice not taken.

My feet have a tendency to sweat and by association, to smell as most feet do. Oh great I thought, if the shoes don’t reek now, they definitely will when I’m done with them. I looked up at Ben’s question in horror. “It’s ok you don’t have to wear socks but…” he trailed off as I completed his sentence in my head, “but that’s really nasty and I wouldn’t do it if I were you.”

Our instructor walked us over to the rock wall—level 1-- a 5.5 wall- as easy peasy as they get- but somehow it still looked a little freaky. Looking around me I noticed we were the only women there. As with REI or weight lifting rooms this was a total men den but I was determined to elbow my way in like a girl craving a drink at a crowded bar.

I had never learned how to belay, or man the ropes for another climber from the ground, but I climbed once as a kid. I was up Ben said, the guinnea pig first climber with my friend on the ground manning the ropes. I started climbing- it was easy enough and I shot up pretty fast. At the top I looked down at my friend below to make sure she had my back and was ready for me to fall, at which time I was supposed to yell, “catch” to be sure.

You know how people say never look down? Well, there’s a reason for that, what wasn’t scary on the ground floor can be pretty scary from up high.

I’m not a huge fan of heights, that fact somehow slipped my mind when I decided to do this. I’m not deathly afraid, as in I won’t get on an airplane but if I were on top of the Empire State Building I probably wouldn’t go anywhere near the edge.

As a kid, I refused to walk across this big metal cat walk/bridge across a canyon, which at the age of eight might as well have been the Grand Canyon. My parents had to coax me the whole way across. It was metal and when you looked down it was like seeing through a grate- you could see everything below. I remember freezing mid-way across and refusing to go any further. I stood frozen and, as I do when I reach a point of supreme frustration and fear, I started crying and protesting my ability to do it. Holding on to the rail in the middle of this bridge I was afraid to go back and afraid to go forward, instead I just stood there and had a melt down.

Now at the top of my climb looking down, I thought, I don’t know if I can do this, what was I thinking! Given that my friend had just learned how to use the belay to lower me down, I was a little freaked out to sit back in my harness and push off the wall and trust that she had me- even if Ben was standing right next to her. It reminded me of those trust games they make you play as a kid, you know, lean back as though you are falling and trust that the person behind you will catch you. Man I hated that game!

“Catch!” I yelled. “Ok,” she called back. Deep breath. I leaned back sitting into the harness and pushed off the wall in one insanely trusting leap of faith. She had me. I was fine. I didn’t go careening downward to my death. We switched, my friend climbed up the wall and came down with me slowly lowering her down. Ben said, “Don’t let the ropes get twisted,” and took off leaving us to climb.

“That’s it!” I thought. Seriously? Once up and down and we’re cleared to climb alone? I looked over at my friend. She had an unphased grin from ear to ear. I felt panicky like a deer in the headlights thinking what if I fall and she handles the ropes wrong or I handle it wrong?- a less than 10-minute instruction and we’re now expected to entrust our lives into each other’s very novice hands? You crazy? Ben walked back to the front desk as I look concernedly after him. My friend nonchalantly said, “cool, come on!”

Turns out we were fine. A little clumsy at first maybe but never unsafe. We went from 5.5 to 5.8 in one hour- taking turns climbing different walls. I’d reach a point in the wall and get stuck but giving up was not an option. I’d push up with my legs and reach a little further with my arms and take more risks- sure I might fall but I knew my friend had my back and when I got stuck I’d pause, survey my options and then make a move- it was kind of like life really.

Each wall I climbed I climbed better and faster and each time I reached the top of a climb it was like conquering my own doubt in myself that I couldn’t do it. When I sat back in my harness, making my way down after having reached the top- I realized that I could do it and what’s more I did do it!

Both of us left that day proud, and with a sense of empowerment. It may have been a men den but my friend and I lived up to the quote at the entrance, “Shut up and climb!”

I thought briefly about my first rock climbing experience at a gym in San Francisco- how clumsy and insecure I felt then- how timid and embarrassed to even try climbing- like all eyes were upon me laughing at how bad I was, I had little faith in what I was capable of then. What a different person I am now. I didn’t believe I could do it then, I never even had the courage to get up to bat really but now I know I can do it and even if I can’t the real difference is that I’m no longer afraid to fall trying.

I've always wanted to....

Be a cheesemaker's apprentice

I’m learning to make cheese….in Spanish and very quickly it becomes apparent that I might have over estimated my Spanish language skills. I understand Spanish, the kind of Spanish that is spoken slowly and with no major contractions or slang words. But in this factory there are a world of Spanish language dialects some of which don’t even sound like Spanish. Juliana, for example, a cheese maker for over 25 years is from El Salvador and speaks a dialect that even the women from Mexico don’t understand half the time. Speaking or understanding without knowledge of cheese making vocabulary is also hard. So saying something as simple as “pass the colander” becomes very complex.

Cheesemaking is hard, physically hard and these cheesemakers have endurance and grit. I begin to understand the difference between laboring with your hands or at a desk. Sitting at a desk all day staring at a computer screen and making phone calls is a world apart from standing on your feet for 8 hours or more every day in un-supportive galoshes using your hands and at times your whole body in the process of turning curd into cheese. At the end of each day I ache in places I had never ached before and my respect for this profession and the product that results grows deeper.

There’s a camaraderie that takes place amongst the warm cheese curds and at the table while forming mozzarella balls. In the back ground the radio is playing a Spanish station and a song I now know nearly all the words to, “Sabes que me gustas tanto?” We swing our hips back and forth as we all gather around the table and wait for the next batch of mozzarella to be ready for shaping. One of the women giggles as I join in the dancing, “Rebecca, Te gustas bailar?”

I’m told that each person has their own cheese signature, the way you squeeze the mozzarella up through your hands and pinch it off- the closure is different for each person. Right now I call mine “wonky” it’s something of a mix between lumpy and awkward. I also make one ball in the same time the other women make three. I feel clumsy and slow and when I try to form a mozzarella ball most of the women sigh and say “ ah Rebecca que paso?” I mean these women are fast. Most of them have been making cheese for 25 years and have an amazing work ethic. You can’t be shy; when they throw down a big mass of fresh mozzarella you gotta step up to the bowl and tear off a piece and start making your ball.

Once formed, each ball is hurled across the room into a tub full of water, or the “salemolla” as they call it, which is a mixture of acid, water and salt. These women never miss either, they just sling those balls across the room like it’s nothing one right after the other. Splash, splash, splash. It’s amazing that they don’t collide mid-air. I didn’t want to be the looser “gringo” new girl that walked her ball over and dropped it into the tub, so I took a deep breath, said a silent “here goes” and made my best imitation of a baseball pitch. Splash went my ball into the tub as I said a silent “Thank God” and reached for another mass of mozzarella. I smiled and looked at everyone very pleased with myself at my big accomplishment but no one seemed to acknowledge this as any great feat. For the experienced cheese maker hurling mozzarella balls is second nature but for me I’m like yes! I made a ball, Yes! The ball made it into the water vat. Yes! I measured the salt, water, and acid ratio correctly for the Salemolla. Yes! It’s the small things that count.

One day the mozzarella balls were so fat that I had the hardest time stuffing them in their little plastic packets for vacuum packing. Another day I labeled several sheet pans full of packaged mozzarella with the wrong packing date and incurred the wrath of the head cheesemaker, as I slowed things down by having to start all over and re-package them. Another day, we made Queso Oaxaca, long ribbons of mozzarella cheese sprinkled with salt and fresh lime juice and rolled up like a ball of yarn. I actually cut the limes the wrong way. I didn’t even know there was a wrong way to cut a lime. In the wake of this new realm of cheesemaking what I think I know has lost its equilibrium as I realize I really don’t know anything about anything. Accepting this discomfort and living in it gives way to new insights.

There’s a pride and a sense of humor that is tangible in this factory. Many of these women have been here for 25 years or more and I often feel like some kind of interloper, just a gringo passing through. Many of them don’t know why I’m here in this factory instead of in an office somewhere as some would say I belong or am privileged to be and indeed sometimes I’m not so sure why I’m here either as I begin to doubt my own convictions.

I screw up a lot- measure the salt wrong, re-do it, try to keep up their pace but inevitably fall behind, feeling like I Love Lucy on the chocolate assembly line, I simply can’t keep pace. But there are moments like when I’m scooping warm ricotta curds light as a cloud into plastic baskets to drain, or chatting with the goats milk purveyor about his milk, or when one of the women smiles at me in mutual annoyance at the head cheesemaker, or when I finally make headway with my Spanish and can even joke in Spanish, or when I’m invited to share tortillas and carne with the mujeres, my fellow women, my fellow cheesemakers and we laugh. It’s moments such as these that make me remember the essence of what life is all about. These women taught me that. Life is not a life worth living unless you can laugh out loud, have a sense of humor, make friends, and take pride in what you do, whatever that may be- do it well and with care.

I’ve always wanted to…..

Learn how to make cheese

Burrata Cheese

Mozzarella and I met, I mean properly met, during a college semester abroad in Florence, Italy. This was mozzarella as it was always intended to be- hand stretched, soft, milky and delicious. I developed a great love for mozzarella, especially Buffalo Mozzarella. My first bite would not soon be forgotten- melted on top of a margarita pizza; “Mozzarella di Bufala” became something I would request whenever it was available. After tasting authentic mozzarella there was no going back to packaged part-skim shredded mozzarella. I sought out mozzarella imported from Italy to cure my cheese craving and a longing for the Italian life I had so identified with.

During my post college years I lived in the culinary epicenter known as San Francisco and my love of food deepened. San Francisco introduced me to Burrata: a fresh mozzarella cheese filled with mozzarella scraps and fresh cream. When sliced open an interior of soft stringy curd and cream oozes out like a little hidden gift. I first had Burrata as an appetizer garnished with a simple splash of good olive oil and a sprinkling of sea salt. Later, one of my favorites was Burrata resting on top of a salad of baby arugula with sweet seasonal persimmons. San Francisco, among other things, knows its cheese.

I was ready for a change and left San Francisco to pursue wine studies in Napa Valley. Somewhere along the way, a thought kept running through my mind, a crazy thought- wine might just be the beginning: learn how to make mozzarella cheese next! Leaving my job in San Francisco was in many ways a jumping off point. Like committing to go skydiving, standing on the edge looking at the distance between you and the ground and hoping to God the parachute on your back doesn’t malfunction. The point at which I admitted, “something isn’t working right for me here in this city, in this life; something’s missing, and I alone have the power to take a chance and change direction.”

I wasn’t sure yet what that something was that was missing, or what needed to be changed but I felt deep down in my gut that despite the recent tanking economy it was now or never, sink or swim. The moment of truth- a leap of faith- do I stay in this good and safe job or go confidently in the direction of my dreams?

I was determined to not let the bad economy and fear of not finding another job prevent me from pursuing the path I yearned for. Why should my generation suffer and let their dreams fall by the wayside all for fear of an unstable job market?  So feeling that it was either the craziest decision or the best decision I’ve ever made, or maybe both, I quit my job in San Francisco and headed to Napa Valley to study wine. Perhaps, I rationalized, I was still young enough to have another crazy adventure and to take a big risk and once again challenge myself to try something new. The path of self-discovery is not a straight shot.

Napa was a season of change for me and as my wine studies came to an end and no clear wine-related job was in sight, I knew I was ready for another big change and I left my beloved California and it’s vibrant food culture and awe-inspiring redwood forests and headed for my hometown in Texas.

Cheese was still on my mind and I wasn’t quite ready for another office job yet, I had more learning to do. I felt like a sponge. I wanted to have as many experiences and learn as much about different aspects of the food industry and a life well lived as I could. Up until now I had worked in restaurant and food PR. I knew how to write a concise and informative press release and promote a good product, chef, or restaurant but I wanted to learn about food from the ground up. I wanted to see how products similar to the ones I had promoted were made and meet the people involved in the process. I liked learning things and hearing people’s stories, chef’s stories or how an entrepreneurial cheesemaker got started, or even words of wisdom from a far-flung Costa Rican surf instructor. Stories interest me. I wasn’t sure why I needed to do this, at the time, but once an idea takes root in my mind, there’s no plucking it out, determination kicks in and the rest is a series of tenacious events.