Coming into a new restaurant to take control of an existing menu and program is an interesting experience if just because of the line that gets walked between tradition and innovation. Telling a new cook who keeps talking about “the way it was done at their old place” that it doesn’t matter- they’re here now, we do it this way, you will too- gets a twist when you step in at a level of creative control. “Make it new…” but not too new.
The house bread at my winery cannot be radically changed- too many people love it, it’s too embedded in the menu. Well and good. The cookie recipes, however, and especially a Canele recipe that only one person could ever make work well? Those required the addition of creativity and craft to make them work better and BE better.
No fancy new ingredients. No strange chemical or additions. The best “secret ingredients” are techniques- and the very best ones aren’t even that.
a person who is an adept conversationalist at table
– Dictionary.com
Whenever I get asked why I got into music and writing young, my pat answer has always been “because pens and clarinets don’t stammer.”
Most of the people I call friends today who didn’t know me as a kid find it hard to believe I had a speech impediment. It’s taken me quite a long time to get some control over the how and why my tongue would tie itself up, and I still stammer when I get excited or upset.
“Stammer” isn’t quite accurate, though. I think it’s actually called a hesitancy, but everyone knows what a Stammer or Stutter sounds like. Hesitancy in speech is when your brain gives orders to say words faster than you physically can manage them, so you buffer with a lot of “Uhs” and “Ums.”
Why yes, this does like both a symptom and cause of Anxiety- as does my tendency to hate recordings of myself speaking where I’m not reading off a script. Coping mechanisms for a hesitancy include the tendency to mentally “rehearse” statements and deliberately speaking slowly with pauses between sentences, both of which increase the likelihood of being spoken over or interrupted.
Neither is great for ones self-confidence, especially in a Jewish household in New Jersey where conversation is more like a demolition derby than an exchange of information.
Here I am though, describing myself as an amateur storyteller, a deipnosophist and a raconteur– all of which are very fancy words for “chatty bitch.” I’m an introvert who frequently “runs out of people minutes” but who extols the Life-Changing Magic of Talking to Strangers.
Clearly there was a grand struggle, a great effort made to conquer my disability and emerge from my Bullied Child Cocoon as a Magnificently Eccentric Social Butterfly.
Nope. Nothing nearly so interesting as that. I just became really really good at telling stories. I don’t stammer when I’m reciting from a script- so I learned to treat telling stories as recitations.
“Confidence is what we call the equanimity we see in others.” The ability to look social anxiety and fear in the eye and say “Whatever, I’m not going to let you affect me.” Some liquid courage may or may not be involved in shaking off social inhibition, but when it comes to Talking To Strangers or being a raconteur, I don’t really have “tricks” or “hacks” for being a good conversationalist. At least, I don’t have any that aren’t covered in greater detail by others.
There was no “a-ha” moment of conquest over my anxiety and stammer. The only “trick” I can point to was literally just building that confidenceequanimity for speaking to strangers… and that developed over time.
It’s psychological, and it won’t be shaken off overnight- or ever completely really- but the first step for me was finding opportunities to be brave and practice pushing the anxiety aside for a few minutes, an hour, the length of an evening.
I won’t lie to you, it’ll feel really weird. As a relatively tall, bearded, hairy dude, I was terrified of coming off as a creep. That’s where deciding to let equanimity rule will come in clutch, and the best feeling in the world will really just come from finding kind people.
The best way to find kind people? Start off with something kind. Even if it doesn’t turn into a stirring conversation, you will have made someone feel good. It can- and probably should– be something casual and surface-level. “Dude, love the suit.” “That’s a super cute outfit!” To this day, I sometimes worry that that’ll sound creepy, but truth be told? Most folks are just happy to be noticed kindly.
After that, for me, came something harder. The fact is people are really good at picking up on sham or fakeness. Any place you have to act fake to “fit in” isn’t somewhere you belong OR will enjoy being. Being told to “be yourself” is trite bullshit and too easy- you have to learn to be okay with being yourself. To quote Dr. Brene Brown, “We belong anywhere we show up as our authentic selves. Everywhere, and nowhere at all.”
That is a tall order… and having friends, loved ones, and the company of kind people make it easier. My friends don’t care if I stutter when I’m excited- they know I have something worthwhile to say. Enough kind people have responded well that, despite the anxiety, I know that I can be my chatty, eccentric, Anthony Bourdain/ Jimmy Buffett/ Bilbo Baggins mashed-together self.
That’s one thing I should mention, though- it probably is my single biggest “trick” to being a storyteller. Any storyteller, writer, artist, or creative of any type will likely tell you something similar, but here’s my version.
To have space made for you, make space for others. If you want to tell great stories, you have to listen to the stories of others.
That’s the biggest perk of talking to others- you don’t always talk. You listen, you learn, you absorb, and you connect.
At least until you run out of people minutes… then you get to hide out, recharge, and think of more brave ways to tell and hear new stories. Not a bad way to spend a night out in any case, right?
It took growing up for fall to be something I looked forward to. Growing up on the Jersey Shore, itt meant the start of school, the tourists going home after leaving all their money and trash behind, the streets becoming cold and quiet, and the beaches being empty to enjoy any stray warm days after Labor Day.
In college, I got to see the legendary “Hartford in the Fall” and enjoyed the changing leaves, the coziness of hot beverages and fire pits at night, and the death of all the bloodsucking insects that swarmed in the summer.
Now, in the PNW, I get to experience and enjoy autumn on my own terms. I get to wear warmer, fuzzier clothing more. Evenings spent drinking whiskey in my cozy rocking chair are the constant rather than a treat, and IPAs finally start to vanish from taplists to make room for the darker, maltier beers I love.
Yesterday, I went for a long walk through Mount Tabor Park before it would start raining. It was finally a cooler fall morning and this was to be my workout for the day, so I made a point of enjoying it. I wore my favorite tweed vest combo, my favorite shawl, grabbed my walking stick and just did my Hobbit thing.
I made sure to bring my headphones with me in case I wanted to listen to music or a podcast on the walk, but I didn’t think I would. I haven’t lately, and not for lack of quality in my favorite podcasts. (Seriously, check out Old Gods of Appalachia, especially as we get toward Halloween here in the states.)
Instead, as I mentioned in my last post, I’ve had the time and bandwidth to get more curious about my inner life- how and why my mind does what it does. Historically I’ve used podcasts deliberately to blot out intrusive thoughts, break the anxiety spirals and derail rumination funks that can sap my focus and energy. In other words, they put someone else’s voice in my head when I can’t bear the sound of my own anymore.
They are still excellent for that, but lately I’ve had the energy to explore the “bad neighborhood” parts of my brain and figure out what’s going on in there.
Stepping back into the kitchen after time away feels like stepping into a warm bath. That is, up until you wonder how the water got hot and why it’s getting hotter from the bottom up.
Coming back from South Carolina and the first one in kitchen to start the day like usual, I found myself sighing with relief once I got into the familiar work again after the requisite “let’s see what I have to work with” anxiety.
The kitchen still stood. My team carried on well enough and even set me up a bit so I could slide back in to the groove. You really can’t beat a well-trained reliable assistant when you want to take time off. I came back to the same kind of work, the same personalities and difficulties, and the same serene focus I had taken a break from as much as anything. “Serene focus” sounds better than “conscious detachment” when I talk to my therapist. Positive framing and all.
The Black Hat Baker 