After a rainy day and almost too much walking around in it, it seems the last wayward drops are making their way off the trees and onto the patio.

The week at the winery ended, for me at least, in one of those “what the fuck happened,” twelve-hour shifts that you can’t quite put your finger on where the day went or where it clearly all went wrong, but the only thing for it is embracing the suck, powering through, and getting to a point where you can leave the kitchen for a couple days without fear anything will irreparably explode.

I dragged my ass home, pausing to hit up one of my favorite beer stores along the way. The fact that I then dropped all three can of dark beer on the pavement- one rolling under the car, leading me to kneel down in the dark in a black hoodie, waiting for some impatient shmuck to flatten me before I realized it had rolled all the way under to the curb- confirmed that the day was Seriously and Entirely Fucked, and I needed to get myself home and out of work attire before something else happened.

Emily, absolute princess that she is, greeted me when I came home and told me to just get comfy. I stripped off my jeans and long sleeve undershirt, having already deposited my aprons and jacket for the laundry I’d do later. After a little downtime, some brainrot internet cartoons, and a little of my latest whiskey acquisition, I was feeling something like human again.

I’m in the middle of outlining a second manuscript (yes, while the mentorship book is still very overdue on my own schedule. It’ll get there, this is important too, trust me.) This one is the first book I’ve really tried to write with another person- and what’s more, it’s my father.

My father is, like most boys, the most immediate masculine archetype in my life. He is father, husband, breadwinner, “the one to call for help,” all of it. In addition, he and I have also chosen caregiving industries for how we make a living- he’s a neurosurgeon, and I’m a pastry chef. Different for sure- very few people in recorded history have ever died for lack of pie- but both extremely demanding jobs emotionally, physically, and mentally.

My parents are (semi) retired, I am closing quickly on 40, and it occurred to me that my father and I together have a story to tell the world- “how the hell do you make it work?”

There are plenty of books about how to approach work in both our fields and succeed. I imagine mine are a bit more “colorful” than his, but to be fair, television has had any number of medical dramas and soap operas and we have “The Bear.”

Those (except the television stuff) are most about how to survive and thrive in the field- what is less discussed is how to exist outside of it. How do you build a life, a family, an existence beyond what is says on your resume? What is “the craft of living” as a doctor or chef?

My father, characteristically, credits my mother for holding everything together while we was just out trying to earn. Emily and I don’t have kids, but I credit her similarly for bringing me back down to Earth when the culinary world threatens to rip me away. That is part of the equation for sure- having something outside the field to require you and engage you. Much of my blog has historically been about another key part- creating and developing facets of yourself beyond work.

Still, I know there are people out there- in medical school, culinary school, lots of service and caregiving industries- that on some level are worried about “how do I do this without losing myself? How do I avoid taking it home? How do I let this very important calling of mine inform and support my life without defining it?”

I know the book my father and I will put together won’t answer every question people can have- no one persons experience is typical. If we can tell strung out students and worried grads “Hey, you’re not alone. You’re not weak. We’ve been there- we’ll tell you about it” so that they’ll take hope and hang on long enough to see it through bullshit schedules and hard times, that’ll be more than worth it.

I’m not going to get up my ass and say we have a due date- God knows I’m bad enough with those on my own projects, let alone a team effort- but I’m hopeful you’ll be excited to read it when it’s done. Excited enough, maybe, to pester my dad and I if you see us to spend some time at the keyboard with it.

Stay Classy,