Cascading Success: Little Wins and Granting Grace

I’m writing this post while sitting at a beautiful new desk in the corner of my bedroom. It’s a 1940s Chippendale reproduction secretary desk- the kind that opens outward and contains cubbies, drawers, nooks, and secret compartments inside. It’s seen better days, but except for a little hardware and some polishing, the desk is in excellent condition.

It’s the kind of desk that fits my “dark academia hobbit” vibe perfectly. Sitting down at it just makes me want to write, and even better- I got it for free off of someone’s curb. It belonged to the original owner’s grandmother and it’s just “had its time with them.” They were glad it was being adopted by a writer though instead of winding up in a landfill.

I bring it up because, in the last week or so, various aspects of my life have turned for the better. I’m finally starting to lose weight again, my money management has improved so that I’m actually able to save again, and I’ve successfully pitched two new desserts at work in addition to getting a cost-of-living pay increase.

My dad would say “Don’t question it, just say thanks and carry on.” It’s a typically Jewish superstitious mindset- “When good things happen, don’t question it and don’t express too much happiness or it’ll all go away.” I catch myself in that all the time. I rarely say “everything’s great”- it’s always “I’m doing alright.” “Things could always be better” as a Jewish mental/emotional/spiritual/supernatural insurance against things getting worse.

I am starting to question and wonder about this, though, simply because this isn’t the first time it’s happened. A feeling of something “clicking” into place and unlocking a cosmic level-up. The best that I can tell, it’s because success cascades, and “winning” once can inspire you to succeed in other areas, consciously or not.

A deskscape of an old-fashioned secretary desk with a laptop, a candle, a wine glass, and an ipad playing music.
A better computer that can fit nicely inside with the front closed will be next, but you have to admit this is classy and cozy as hell.
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Making Meaning with Sauce on the Side

Like so many culinarians, I found belonging and sanctuary in the kitchen.

I am just one of a community of artists, craftsmen, lunatics, madmen, and misfits who Found My Tribe. We are passionate, angry, opinionated, and utterly devoted to Food and Dining in and of themselves arguably beyond notions of “customer service.” Serving Customers, though important, is debatably an (important) afterthought compared to the effectiveness and quality with which we just Make Things For People To Eat.

Our belonging is anchored by shared experiences, shared knowledge, shared idiosyncrasies and lingo, and our personal capacity and skill sets. In absence of anything else, I belong in any kitchen I am in because my knowledge, experience, skills, and ability to carry hard give me the right to belong.

Sanctuary,” on the other hand, is different for everyone. In general, most of the cooks I know (myself included) are terminal workaholics who fall in and out of rehab constantly. We know we shouldn’t work as many hours as we do as hard as we do. We grouse and complain about hoping to get sent home early, but we’ll be first to insist that “as soon as we look away, everything goes to hell.”

The truth is that the kitchen for many of us is not just “work”- even though we’re more than happy to get paid for our labor. The kitchen is where Everything Has A Reason and Everything Make Sense, including and especially us. It’s a space where order is established and it’s an order we know and understand well. No one has to tell us what we’re there for or what our function is after a while. We can lose ourselves in the dance of a busy service, julienne celery, or rolling seemingly endless loaves of bread. We see and feel our meaning for that day in our hands.

Close up black and white photo of a man’s hands. He is dusting them with flour in front of his black apron over a piece of flatbread he is about to work on.
Photo by Malidate Van
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The Alchemist

Baking and pastry, I’ve often noticed, gets treated with a mixture of awe, admiration, and contempt among kitchen workers. On one hand, we’re often the guys that have easy-to-grab snacks on hand. “Hey Matt… um… any of these cookies happen to ‘fall on the floor?’” Our weighing of everything, our techniques, and (frequently) the vision of us patiently stirring pots of bubbling stuff that smells amazing makes what bakers do look like alchemy or wizardry. Occasionally, there are some cooks with chips on their shoulder that insist we’re “useless” and “can’t do anything without a recipe book.” (Yes, I actually had someone say that to me once. To my knowledge they still have all their teeth, God knows how.)

Somewhere along the way, though, I’ve managed to cultivate an image out here that compels this question from my coworkers: “Dude, how old ARE you?”

My mannerisms aside, I don’t think I look a day over “ageless.”
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Spruce Tips and Rum Sips

I get so tired of this world sometimes.

The ignorance, the arrogance, and the eager cruelty on parade into our eyes and brains (whether in caution or praise) gets to be way too much after a while.

Earlier this week was Passover. We didn’t do a Seder this year because timing and activity didn’t work out in our favor. Instead, Emily made chicken satay for dinner. I sat on the porch typing away at this piece after having scrolled through far too much nonsense. That’s one reason this blog post is so late- I simply haven’t had the bandwidth after coming back from Philadelphia.

I finished a small glass of grog (because rum is alright for Passover and I had rice lager waiting to be paired with dinner) and I chatted with a dear friend about the logistics of making Sephardic matzo for a change- as opposed to the hard, cracker-like Ashkenazi matzah I’ve had my entire life.

I wore white linen, watched the light change on Mount Tabor as the sun went down, and I’m listened to Ladino music as I wrote (but Zac Brown Band’s tribute to Jimmy Buffett, “Pirates and Parrots,” is still in my head.)

I spent the day in the sun. Here’s what I have to say about it all.

Glad I finally found a tweed vest that goes with that hat. Thanks Goodwill!
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Our Insecurities Can Speak Out Of Turn

My exercise routine has been yielding interesting results lately. After injuring my lats by increasing weight too fast on overhead presses, I decided to switch it up and give Romanian Deadlifts a shot, and while I will be going back to running in the spring I really enjoy just taking long walks in Mount Tabor Park.

The Romanian Deadlifts don’t seem to be doing much for my weight, but I’ve noticed I’m able to touch my toes more easily. The walks, similarly, have become less about getting exercise in and finding time to be quiet and mindful and piece my way through life.

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