mucho, poco, nada.
This is supposed to be my fifth blog post. The truth is, every time I sit down to write, I find no words despite the swirl of them endlessly in my brain.
Sometimes, they combine to form mixtures of sentences, lines of thoughts, well-structured paragraphs that lead to the same place in my head, behind the back door, in a bowl of jumbled-up strings of words.
It's no secret that I have been avoiding writing for some time now. If you'd pay attention, the avoidance of facing the bowl of thoughts with a spoon in hand has been catching up to me. Nights of restless sleep and days of feeling like a stranger to myself are some of the consequences of not having the guts to eat from that bowl.
Despite always being hungry and wanting more, I cannot bring a spoonful to my lips. I am afraid I do not have the stomach for that.
By this point in life, I should be able to stomach my own thoughts and face the truth in that alphabet soup. I spent the longest time in the kitchen, getting recipes right and wrong, until I curated a selection of dishes by hand to move forward, time and time again.
Now, I feel like my menu is full, and the dishes I meticulously prepared don't belong to me anymore. Once prepared and plated, they left the kitchen, leaving me behind with empty hands and a restless mind.
Do the dishes live up to the expectations of those who taste them? The words swirl together in my mind like soft serve being poured on a cone. I wonder if they'll be liked, if the hard work and love I put into them can be tasted behind the dish's flavors, if they'll matter to someone beyond being a few bites of food in a mouth that never stops eating.
The dishes mattered to me; they still do, even when replicated, shared, and out of my hands. Sometimes, I wish I had a cookbook filled with them, so that I could look back and replicate them. I never wrote the cookbook, unfortunately. I now find the recipes scattered in my head, and when I make the dishes from memory, they are not what they used to be when I first ate them.
It's so easy sometimes to slip back into old patterns, just as it is for me to cook the same recipes over and over. My palate has grown, and I have too, but there's something comforting about slipping back into old shoes, old clothes, and old recipes. Despite the simplicity, it's sadly not enough to satisfy me.
And I ask myself, what is enough, then?
I have yet to figure out the answer.
I wake up hoping that the alphabet soup in my head straightens out into full sentences with the answer. (They sadly never do). And I know it's something up to me to figure out, but in times like these, I really wish I had a sous chef in my kitchen. I am tired of ingredient peeping, of cooking mindlessly to pair flavors, hoping that the choices I make turn out to be something good and satisfying.
It is incredibly tiring to run a kitchen. I have been running my own kitchen for the past 6 years. I am incredibly proud of how far my dishes have taken me and grateful for the people I have met because of them. But I have hung up my chef's hat and coat for the time being.
Well… since January.
I hung up my apron and closed my kitchen, not looking back when the door closed. Since then, I have moved on to another kitchen. This one is bigger, colder, but warm at the same time. It's inviting. And it is mine. Although I'll never tell my past housemates, I will forever miss cooking hot dishes in a cramped kitchen when it was sweltering hot outside.
My new kitchen is comfortable, and the temperature is colder, but a part of me will always miss the feeling of bodies pressed together, hands busy, and food scattered, waiting to be combined into something great.
When you're born knowing in your bones that you are meant for great things, you grow up working towards those great things, even if you don't know what they are. I spent a good chunk of my life making sure I had all the right ingredients, cutlery, dishes, and the setting to build something beyond the dishes I'd make in my kitchen. And just like everything in life, there comes a point where you throw the towel, and you walk away from your dish, waiting for it to be tasted.
I am in that frustrating position of not only waiting for feedback but also figuring out which new recipes I will develop moving forward. I have a strong base of dishes that form the foundation of what I have built. It would be very easy to replicate and tweak them, rebranding them in hopes that they do the job again. Sadly, the dishes are starting to fall short, and as time passes, I am running out of ideas to ensure my success.
Running out of ideas or realizing you've done enough and it's time to throw in the towel has left me feeling confused, lost, and angry. I am a great cook, no doubt about it. But if I am so great, why does it seem like all my work won't open any doors, regardless of the mouthfuls of positive feedback my dishes get?
I fear for the day that I fully step back from my kitchen, and I am grateful that day is not near.
But if it's not time to throw in the towel, nor expand to uncharted cuisines, then what time is it, then? I can do all the food prep and brainstorming in the world, but I still see the plethora of amazing dishes in front of me.
And there’s only one problem, I do not know which mouthful of food I will choose next. And like every good cook, it’s up to me to sit down and figure which dish I will decide to cook up and serve next.