Okay. Time to turn the lights back on. And it is true, the more things fall apart, the more they come together. So, what happened? Well, the short answer is that I simply ran out of gas and money to run the store. The Army of One approach? Not so much. Also, while I was aware of the pitfalls of starting a food enterprise, and attempted to avoid them, I pretty much landed ass over tea kettle in every single one. But as a friend once told me, “You’re like a cat, you always find a way to land on your feet.” I think that’s because I own every mistake I make and apologize when I do wrong. I own it here. In particular, the fundamental mistake of deciding to build-out a café/eatery. I came up here to cook gourmet, intimate dinners—not to sling sandwiches and do take-home meals. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the store and all the awesome people/customers I met. But, deep down, it wasn’t the reason I wanted to move here. Somehow, things got sideways. So, right, maybe I wasn’t grounded. I mean, what rational human being walks away from a six figure salary, sells his house, moves to a new town three hours away, builds an eatery and runs it by himself—and does it while wrapping up a divorce and taking on the majority of the care of the children? Fucking stupid, right? Okay, maybe not entirely stupid, but certainly not the easy way. Nothing about this was easy, or easy for me. Let me say that again–nothing about this was easy for me.
When I fail, I own it. I also take a moment to digest it and take what I can from it. Here, I learned a lot of valuable lessons. One of them? I came up here to cook high-end food. The few opportunities I got to do so in the last year, I killed it. I gained the confidence in my cooking I needed—when I’m on, I can throw down with anyone. I thank Melanie Blankenship for giving me the opportunity to figure this out—and for telling me I have the skill to deliver mad food.
Unfortunately, the shit got wild and—like a weeble wobble caught in a hurricane—I fell over, but I didn’t fall down. Falling over included a trip to the emergency room in mid February. Which leads me to another lesson learned—fluorescent lights suck. Why they put them in emergency rooms, blaring down on you while you wait (and wait) for a doctor, is beyond me. Particularly, late at night, the damn things burn a hole in your head. If you didn’t need medical assistance beforehand, by the time you get out of the ER, you will be blind. Maybe that is a good thing . . . you won’t be able to see the massive bill that you incurred to be told, “There’s something wrong with you, we just don’t know what.” Uh, tell me something I don’t know? I was scared. I admit it. Hooked up to machines. Tests coming back “abnormal.” In pain. Alone. My kids. My kids. My kids. All I could think about.
No worries folks, a few months later and my machine is getting back to normal. Diet. Exercise. Sleep. Some crap about inflammatory markers and chronic fatigue immune syndrome. Blah, blah, blah. No doubt, it was frightening, enough to make me assess what was going on. I couldn’t run the store and take care of my kids. And, I was not comfortable with the imbalance between money in (lawyering) and money out (the store). I was putting my family in jeopardy. The crappy thing is that the store was meant to be something I built with my kids. Some sort of legacy, or at least a place where they could learn life lessons. When it became the albatross—that was a tough pill to swallow.
Today, life’s looking sharp. Crisp, even. I’m starting to think about food again (lost the passion for a spell), and I’m working on a new venture that is tight. Low overhead, all about the food . . . and I’m not doing it alone. Waiting on a few things to materialize and, if they do, we’re going subterranean, Fall 2012. Things fall apart. Things fall together again. This cat has landed on his feet—albeit it with a bit of debris and some minor damage incurred during the fall. Watch out, snitches.
For my kids:
