I struggle to be happy in my career, i fucking hate cooking professionally, but I love cooking in a homey environment, I truly love it.
I’ve been told by 5 amazingly skilled Chefs (and many casual cooks) and pastry Chefs that I’m “raw talent”, this isn’t ego tripping, I hate it.
I was 17 when I ran a 2 hatted restaurant kitchen. I was 17 when I ran a kitchen that processed over 300+ covers a shift. I was 18 when I was told by one of Australia’s most awarded chefs that my “skill is underestimated by everyone” and “you’re the most talented young chef I’ve ever worked with”. We will refer to him as “M”. All of these people that mentored me had all pushed me past my breaking point as I refused to ever crumble and they taught me how to hold my composure together whilst I was bombarded with dockets of complexity and screamed at by others in the hectic chaos of a commercial kitchen. I remember the words I said to M after I sliced my finger open on a mandolin during the first week of opening the 1500 seat restaurant. “That’s pretty gnarly. Many more to come!” M laughed his words out whilst wrapping my wound. “Actually M, I don’t want to do this anymore” I replied. M laughed again, “Do what? Cut your finger?”. “No, I don’t want to be a chef. I never really did. I’ve just fooled myself by saying that the next kitchen will be better when it’s really just my heart that’s neglecting this all. I just like cooking and making food look good, but writing is my passion.” I stared blankly at him waiting for a reply. “Ah, I was worried you would say that. I saw your writing and photos and as much as I’d want you here, truly it’s a shame, you need to do what you feel you need and you need to take photos and write. But I don’t want you to do that because I’m selfish and you’re good, I want you to be a stable part of this team.” M replied.
“But I’m truly not stable when in this environment, it’s killing me for the second time in 6 years.” I explained.
M comfortably understood my words during the most fragile moment of my cooking career and that particular restaurant’s new history.
Following all this was an excessive amount of moving locations and homes, random jobs that fucking sucked and a lot of writing that felt as if I was drawing ink from my blood. I was in so much pain mentally and on the verge of breaking down daily so last month I laid out every journal of mine from the very first journal to my current one and I read through the first one and on the 2nd page in 2014 I was writing about baristas because I had met a barista friend, I like baristas. Then I read a little further in, skipping over the beyond amateur writing language with covered eyes and I quickly came across an entry from March 2014 and it wrote “I love cooking but I will always want to work for National Geographic where I can write about people and take photos”, I was 14 when I wrote that but I had that dream since I was 6 and to this day that would be so super rad but also after so much trial and error of writing a fiction novel & two full books of poetry, I have finally started a fiction novel that I love, its my escape world. I’m 6000+ words in, just over 2 Chapters. I love it, I love this book, I love it as if it’s not mine. When I read it I get excited about the world that I seem to be subconsciously translating across from my heart, a part of my delicate brain that I sadly forgot about throughout my prior cooking jobs, working my 16 hour work days & 6 days a week on no more then $11.36 an hour.
But now I add to my fiction novel throughout the day on my Phone’s note, in my journal and finally on my laptop daily and many times I delete a chapter worth of writing and character building but I’ve never been so content & happy towards my work. No photo, video, poetry, article, plate of food or creative writing piece has made me feel as if I’m on the yellow brick road, but this book does. I’ve always felt naked & in the eye of the storm ever since my legs could hold my torso in movement, so this is the most relieving moment of my life so far, but I must admit that I thought the relief would come through cooking or photography but it has come through the one thing that I did before taking photos since owning my first DSLR when I was 12. I remember, I use to pull out my father’s office chair from beneath the desk, do a few spins on it then organise the desk and connect the dial up internet and search random shit that I would quickly write a 2000 word chapter or 2 about, I never finished a book though as I’m so particular that I give up when I know the potential of the story is lacking. My favourite was a short story called “The Shack” that I added to over a few extended weeks on our barely usable desktop computer, I was 8. I apologise if my parents ever came across it as it was fairly hideous but it was a start and a start always shows potential. So it’s taken me 19 years (I know that is fuck all to some people) to actually know what I want to do. Some people are 60 and don’t know what they want to do but I literally obsess over knowing my career and working towards it so often that I could be well and truly 60 by now. As a result to this epiphany, (seems as if it’s the 40th epiphany this year) I’m soon leaving my comfy little vegan cafe cooking job to move to Melbourne with my partner so I can write and work in an environment that isn’t cooking food, and of course we can have a cozy home to ourselves. I know I write a lot now but Melbourne seems quite adequate to us both.
So from here on I’m not a chef nor a photographer, I’m just a writer and I’m happy with that.
