Genesis - Goals and Glory

I thought it would be interesting to let my stream of consciousness meander along the weird and winding reflection of where I’ve been, what I’ve done, and more precisely, who I was.

I’ve always been an academically-minded person. Growing up, I got good grades and did what I was told. I did well in school and kept to myself and a very small circle of friends. The awkward-kids table in the cafeteria was where I felt the most at home.

Don’t get me wrong, I know nothing about Lord of the Rings, how computers work, or the lore behind the vast collections of comic books my friends carried around, but I did love to learn.

And I was crafty. I say “crafty” because a budding artist rarely has the gall to move themselves past the self-depreciative category that is “crafts.”

I dabbled in many art forms throughout high school - metallurgy, jewelry and stone, painting, charcoal, watercolor, pastels, pencil and ink, you name it. They were my refuge and I was certain I would be a jeweler.

…or an author.
….or a neurologist. Maybe one of those doctors that diagnoses cool, rare diseases, like House.
…or an archaeologist.
Or a crime scene investigator.

In truth, there were so many fascinating subjects around me that I couldn’t find enough time to explore them all.

I went on to community college and received two Associates Degrees because, I suppose, if you’re not going to live up to your initial wildest expectations for yourself, you’ve got to double down. Without the guidance and goal-posts being put down by my teachers and professors, I felt completely lost.

This was when a strange and unsought opportunity fell into my lap and I was asked to begin working as a cook in a small (I mean SMALL) hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Cranking out insane amounts of food in equally insane conditions was exciting! It gave me the insights into the food and lifestyle I never knew existed, and thus it began:

The First Renaissance

A lot of aspiring chefs ask their superiors (on down time in between cleaning out the grease trap and downing a cigarette or two before the next rush) what they wish they knew when they were younger; what advice would a chef give to his young pupil?

It seemed to me that the unanimous answer was a curt, “don’t.”

Being a cook, and then ultimately, a chef, is a punishing job. The hours are long, the pay doesn’t do the work justice, and yes, it is constant. “If you have time to lean, you have time to clean,” is the general maxim. You eat your lunch, if you have that luxury, as quickly as you can, hunched over a garbage bin. Many times, the restaurant’s numerous problems become your own. And you’d better have a damn good pair of shoes.

Full. Stop.

It is some of the most rewarding work you can do if you have the passion and drive and can stomach getting a little beat up in the process. You put your name on a plate, showcase the pride in your preparation, organization, execution and know that, against all odds, you’ve accomplished the near-impossible in a stunningly short time, leaving you duly exhausted and bursting with exaltation.

During the day, you and every one of your team worth their weight in salt worked hard, and at night, everyone put their full being into playing harder. Apparently, one can only unwind by attempting to re-wind in the opposite direction. This went on day after day, week after week, until suddenly, years had zoomed by.

The reward of a cold shift-drink

I spent nearly 15 years behind the lines (BOH for those in the know), experiencing the extreme highs of a job well done and the devastating lows of failing my team in critical moments. I was piloting my way through the battlefield of the controlled chaos of a kitchen in the weeds and pulling up and out to a safe victory just as the shit hits the fan.

The kitchens showed me who I was deep down and pulled me from the thick-walled, comfortable shell I had cocooned myself in throughout high school and well into college. It showed me what I was capable of, what I could endure, what I could accomplish, and what more I had in me besides the shy teenager scared of the world.

They didn’t, however, show me who I could be, and I realized towards the end of my tenure that I was putting off the next chapter of myself.

It was in that burn-out, spiraling out of the sky with a broken wing and the radio long dead, that I knew it was no longer for me. The future had been calling for me, loudly, and even though my ears were still ringing, I started to listen.