If you ever start to wonder just how important having. a routine is,, just wait till something comes along and messes it up.
I’ve been out of work for only one and a half weeks, but it feels so much longer. As my energy/pain levels vary from day to day (but slowly doing better!) I find myself easily losing track of time.
I’m learning, though, that’s not always a terrible thing- and maybe I was due.
Happy Halloween, friends and neighbors!
I hope you spend tonight safely, spookily, and loaded up with enough pumpkin and chocolate that you can’t possibly forget to VOTE.
This blog post is coming to you from my rocking chair, where it is about noon and I am still in my pajamas. This is because I have had a hell of a week, and I am getting an aggressive masterclass in How To Just Chill The Hell Out- because the five holes in my torso need to heal, and will not be denied.
As such, I have been sleeping a lot, listening to a lot of music and podcasts, and even awoke the Dread Owl from its slumber… so here’s what’s been on my mind.
When it comes to ambition, goal setting, and planning- whenever someone says “there wasn’t room for doubt,” I don’t think that’s true. I think they didn’t MAKE room for doubt.
That sounds almost cynical and defeatist- and I suppose it could be taken that way. I won’t pretend to be some grand philosopher on that. I’m an anxious person. “Doubting” is as natural to me as lemonade on a hot day- as is planning, contingency, and fear-setting, for better or worse.
If Jesus can have a moment of doubt at Gethsemane, I’m pretty sure us poor mortals can wake up in the morning and wonder if we’re still going the way we want to in life. Those moments are important, because that’s when you make the turns that get you there. Don’t cheat yourself by removing room to doubt.
My friend Renee has- like most of our industry- had a rough couple of months.
Renee is a sommelier back east. She has enough skill that positions in her niche are scarce. She also has lifestyle demands that make the job pool even shallower- and enough contacts and familiarity with a particular scene on the East Coast that discretion is required. As we sip coffees and tea at a rainy cafe in Astoria, Renee spins a saga of staffing and management issues, attending the needs of VIPs, and protecting the restaurants reputation. It all culminates in a storm of uppity underlings, COVID protocols, and curiously nebulous budgets that lead to her (relieved but frustrated) resignation.
“I’m not even fond of wine,” she admits with a short snort. “I’m good at being a somme, but I honestly like cocktails more.” She didn’t even really enjoy the fine dining restaurant life. She was fine with the formality and artifice of high society. The social waters she navigates with ease gives me the willies just thinking about. Managing the wine at a restaurant, though, was “just a box that had to be checked on the way.”
“I think I’m going to pivot to distribution.” she muses as we finish our coffee. “That’ll keep my toes in the world. People keep suggesting I teach, so there’s that too.”
I recount my own experiences at the bakery (I’m almost afraid they’ll bore her- my own worries have been no less frustrating, but far less flashy) and we share a rueful laugh. The tragedy of it all is that none of this is new. “That’s the industry.” We’re both tired, both burned out- and wondering if we haven’t had enough.
It’s a question that a lot of chefs ask themselves. This foul year of Our Lord 2020, however, has stepped up a lot of professional timelines. With every successful night’s service, every broken freezer, every balancing of the books- chefs everywhere ask themselves “How much longer can I keep this up? ”
“What will come next?”
Youtube https://youtu.be/pYLjHhSOE7s
Continue readingI had been in a depressive slump for a few days. Life for me was less a series of deeds and events than a monochrome shamble from one checkpoint to another.
But when I got home to a quiet house with my wife taking an afternoon nap, I knew the fog was lifting- because I wanted to make some pie.
I weighed out the flour and cut the butter. A small measure of iced tea was poured for the liquid. Regardless of my state of mind, my hands still had the skills. The ancient wisdom still flowed through them, and they knew without my correction how to create something good. It was the quiet, meditative serenity of letting my hands move while my mind watched and convalesced- shaking off the lead cloak Depression had thrown over it.
Reconnecting to something simple, delicate, and pure.
This is the space where I think people show their true skills.
The Black Hat Baker 