It’s one of those “if you see it, it’s already really bad” things. “You see one cockroach or rat in plain view in your kitchen, you’ve already got an infestation.” That fact that you can see the problem means that it’s a big problem.
In this case, however, it’s more about what you can’t see– or not as clearly, not anymore. To quote Pastor Rob Bell, “Despair is the belief that tomorrow will be just like today.” You can’t see a better tomorrow. You can’t see a brighter future. You can’t even imagine it without a painful focus on the worst-case scenario and feeling exhausted from work not yet conceived.
Burnout includes a “theft of spirit,” and you forget how to dream.
When I’m not exhausted beyond reason, furious at pompous bureaucracy and the odious input of “higher ups” that outsource their problem-solving to ChatGPT, I do still in fact love to bake.
I truly do still love making things for people. I love giving my work to others, watching them eat it, knowing their day got better for a moment because of my work, and maybe even teaching others how to do that magic for themselves.
As much as previous cafe jobs put me through, it was always the environment and the management, never the work. Even when I was dragging my ass out of the French bakery at 10am after starting at 2, hoping to find a place that wouldn’t question giving me a post-shift beer over brunch, I loved looking in the display case as I left. I saw everything I’d made that morning, people and kids pressing their noses against the glass at crusty kouign-aman and caneles, and think to myself “I helped make their day start better. It was all worth it.”
It took and takes a LOT for me to lose sight of that fact. Fine dining has always been a pleasure of mine and that kind of work- being a pastry chef- is the best way to gain access to good ingredients, new technology, and have excuses to experiment. Your local bakery cafe doesn’t mess around with agar agar (unless they are vegan.) They don’t need a PacoJet, and getting obscure or rare materials is not always a priority- or even in the budget. They’re making delicious breakfast pastries, cookies, and pies- not plated desserts for $15 a hit.
When you set off on a culinary career, it’s good to know what you love about it and find the path that support it. It’s never too late to learn more about yourself and change.
The right food at the right time can give you nearly everything you need. In my case, I was back at the Beer Bus and had just pounded a tuna burrito from Saint Burrito. The balled-up tinfoil and a stained napkin were being held down by what remains of my beer.
I had just come out of the gym and needed a late lunch/ refuel. Protein, carbs, a bit less fat than your normal burrito, and 5% alcohol to help soothe the muscles. Beer doesn’t get enough credit as a post-workout beverage if it’s consumed within reason. John L. Sullivan, the legendary “knock out king” of 19th Century Boston, had an equally legendary drinking problem. All his work and fighting couldn’t keep his daily Kidney Pickling from turning his muscles slack and flabby. “Moderation in everything, including Moderation,” says verbal knock-out king Oscar Wilde.
The boss kepts saying words like “slow down, take a breath, relax a bit…” but the schedule and production weren’t bearing that out, and if you’d asked any of my coworkers, they’d have said it felt like we’d been sprinting since June.
Over post-shift beer, my buddy Nick- the lead prep cook- and I compared what was to be our third holiday season at the winery with the previous two and tried to get our hands around the situation.
“It’s fucking insane…” Nick said, tipping back his pint of amber lager and sucking a little foam off his mustache. “We’re doing business and a lot of it, that’s for sure- but not that much more than last year. Events has a full roster, but prep is still short at least one person. We were short last year too though, so what the hell is it?”
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.
Dad was already a doctor here. I was still trying to figure out what the hell I was. Both of us had mud in our boots and wet socks.
The Black Hat Baker 