getting started

It's been all of nine crazy, pivotal months since I last posted, but in the end it was this little line, nestled quietly on a page in Irene Chalmer's Food Jobs, that prompted me to put pen to paper.  Literally, a real, plastic, complimentary Rosetta Radiology pen and the back of a folded resume.

"Ultimately, the only way to get started is to get started."

Something about that line, which in context was referring to the pursuit of any food writing job, reminded me about Out of Thyme and how adept I'd gotten at avoiding it: You know, I'd really love to post more, but I just don't think I should put up subpar pictures.  My computer is nearing its sixth birthday and cries out in earnest protest when I try to plug in my DSLR or open Lightroom.  And I wouldn't want to post recipes without pictures.  And I wouldn't want to write posts without recipes.  So why bother if it can't be perfect? But no more.  I'm finally beginning to accept that perfection can't ever be achieved, and anyway I won't get any closer by not trying.  So damn it all, my outdated laptop, lack of free wifi in my current location and any other mild inconvenience that would have previously allowed for my cowardly radio silence.  Pen to paper it is.

I had a meeting with my career counselor today.  I contacted her because I've been going through a mild identity crisis, prompted by a few simple truths:

1. New Yorkers work,
2. Cooks cook, and, I was gently reminded during our meeting,
3. Writers write.

And while my identity is really found in other unalterable truths, without any of these three things going for me, questioning my work situation kept leading me to question myself.  I felt like I was drifting without an anchor in this notoriously work-centric city.

I'd been working as the pasta cook, a position I had recently arrived at after working intern and garde manger positions.  The relatively short journey leading up to that point could have more than easily filled a blog on its own, and I'm sorry I didn't take the time to share more of it with you.  In short, it had thus far been more challenging and more gratifying than anything I'd ever experienced.  There were moments during which I felt an incredible conviction, this elated sense that there was nothing else on earth I'd rather be doing, and these helped make up for the hours, days and weeks I'd feel exhausted, stressed and less than pumped for work.  Being the present-minded person I am (ISFP's out there, holla), I was on a day-to-day roller coaster that rose or plummeted depending on how I'd performed, how much or how little affirmation I'd received.  In the end, the good usually outweighed the bad.

What eventually drove me out of the kitchen wasn't a dinner rush disaster or a sixteen hour day but - of all things - a weak wrist.  Tendonitis, to be exact, which had resulted from a minor fall and intensified with the flipping and twirling of butter-glazed pasta in pans, frequently moving stacks of said pans from shelf to rack and other similarly wrist-demanding tasks that had significantly increased with my new position (all performed with the expected urgency without a second thought).

It quickly got serious enough that I had to ask our executive sous chef to knead my ravioli dough each day, get my coworker to grab pans for me every five minutes, wear an often semolina-dusted wrist brace while clumsily arranging herbs with tweezers and finally, go on a temporary leave.  I was told that four to six weeks of rest and physical therapy was my ticket to complete recovery.  Not bad, right?

Yet here I am ten weeks later, waiting for my lunch in a bookstore cafe at 1pm instead of changing into chef's whites.  My prescribed regimen, which I diligently followed, hasn't exactly remedied the problem - in fact, I now have tennis elbows along with tendonitis in both wrists.  Simple tasks like using my phone, moving my laptop over to my bed and even writing usually can't be done without having to stop and massage certain parts of my arms.  Needless to say, the thought of using my hands to do a host of delicate to intensive tasks for twelve straight hours (let alone, to use them confidently) is, well, laughable.  [Insert arm massage break here.]

It's been all too easy to bury myself in a barrage of questions (Why am I the only person this happened to?  What's wrong with me?  Why now and not earlier?  Why isn't this getting better?), easy to feel insecure about losing the respect of my coworkers and about my skills and future as a chef.  But the facts are the facts, and time lost in self-pity is lost time.  For whatever reason, backed by whatever medically viable explanation, this is happening.  It's far from the worst thing that could happen.  So the only useful question to ask is, What do I do now?

I'm currently in the business of distinguishing.  Is this a temporary obstacle?  Is it a detour sign? The truth is that I've given up precious time and money to get here.  Another equally truthful truth is that I need my hands, wrists and arms like a runner needs his feet, knees and legs.  Regardless of my pride that tempts me to write pain off as merely an annoying inconvenience, my body is a messenger I simply can't ignore.  Regardless of my condition, cooking is a passion I simply can't ignore.  And I still have so much to learn.

Ever since my rushed move to New York, I've received the occasional comment from friends and acquaintances who admire (and perhaps romanticize) the risky pursuit of my dreams.  That it's badass and inspiring that I left the comforts of suburban California to sweat it out in a kitchen, that it's "so cool" I'm a chef.  (I am vain and self-absorbed.  This sometimes flatters me. But,)  I'm left feeling embarrassed and hypocritical, especially lately, because really, I think about security all the time.  I've never been more obsessed with it.  Living here is akin to living in a constant warzone between countries What's Really Important and What Seems Important.  I look at friends with full health coverage and paid time off, lunches provided for and sizable salaries, cool perks that obviously mean they must love their obviously perfect job - and think, I could do that.  I could hang up my apron and resign myself to a desk if it meant all that.  I know. [hangs head in shame]

Even now, what scares me most about a possible change in course is all the unknown that would come with it, the risky and probably costly decisions I'd have to make in order for everything to be worth it.  The bills that need to be paid in the meantime.

Dear reader, friend, family member, acquaintance - this is all I can say right now, because going any further would imply that I've reached a conclusion and that my uncertainties are resolved.  They're not.  At the time this is being written, I'm in limbo, and I've realized it's ok to write to you in limbo.  I know this because now that I have, I feel like I'm standing on more solid ground than I have for weeks.

There's another line in Chalmer's book that stuck with me.  Actually, "stuck with me" is an understatement; it's been replaying in my head nonstop since I read it eight hours ago:

"Don't settle for second choice because you are craving security.  There is no such thing as security."

There is no such thing as security. 

There is no such thing as security.

Each time I recite this, I feel a little more certain that everything is going to work out for the best.  As it always has.  Now I just need to figure out what my second choice is.

If all goes well, I'll be seeing you next on the other side.