The Future

I write a lot about the past because it's easier to see things in my head that have actually happened versus trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. The future-- something we try not to think or talk about in A.A. One day at a time we say. But in real life  it's something that I need to start doing.

I know I don't want to be a machine operator forever, but I also know that I have absolutely no desire to pursue a higher education. Really it just doesn't appeal to me, and me think is be good smart enough. I do often think about the good olde days in kitchens, and I dream of somehow, someday, being able to afford to go to culinary school.

I already have many skills that could easily land me a job as a dishwasher or a prep cook at a Denny's or wherever they might hire a 3-time felon, but I'm getting too old to start at the bottom again.

I could stay here in the noisy hot factory and churn out book covers all day for years. But I see what this place and others like it have done to people long term- robots, they're God damned robots!

I prefer a work environment where I can be not only hands-on, but creative. That's what I love about cooking, I can create something that makes people happy, and I enjoy the process of it all.

That's what we should all do, right? We're supposed to do for a career what we would do in our spare time. I can tell you that I do not laminate paper in my time away from work. I get some joy out of the work I do but it pales in comparison to a mediocre day behind the grill. I want that back.

I want to be excited about being early for work every day. I want to think about food and what I can do to make a restaurant better when I'm at home and lying in bed at night. I want to be in the weeds: tickets hanging off the printer to the floor, plates in the window, board full, every hot piece of steel purposefully cooking various meats, shouting everywhere, sweat pouring from top to bottom, somewhere in the background an old Aiwa stereo pumping the same 100 classic rock songs we've heard for our whole lives. There's a real sense of accomplishment at the end of a busy night in a good kitchen. And it's not something anybody will ever tell you, you just feel it. You feel completely torn down and wiped out but you want to do it again.

Of course there's the drugs. I've only briefly worked as a sober cook and the people I worked with were high, drunk, and could often be found in the cooler wielding pistols and mumbling incoherently, all while smoking a cigarette next to the produce. The triggers would be constant, and the perils around every turn, but something tells me I'm very close to being ready to get back in.

Since I doubt I will ever come up with enough money for a Culinary Arts degree, and my old loans have been defaulted for years, my only real option is to start out low down and work through the shit for years. But even at the bottom, where I've been so many times, I can see the top, and I know how to get there. Work, work, work.

Stay tuned, I see a career move within three months...

Down

I've hit another blogging milestone today! As of just after midnight, I've had 5,000 page views. In the grand scheme of things, it's really not that many. That would be like selling 15- 325 page books. But for me it's exciting because I know people are reading what I write and it makes me want to write more. I ask of one favor from you: if you have any favorite posts, or you particularly like one in the future, share it. There is a link at the bottom of every post that allows you to share it on all of the main social media outlets, and it would really help me get my message out, whatever my message might be that day. Thanks now.

This will be my last weekend of lock down. Again, like last weekend, I’ve spent about four hours on both Saturday and Sunday, doing community service at the Goodwill Outlet. It’s not particularly boring or stressful, but without fail, every week, I’m the only one that keeps moving, working, hustling. I don’t take breaks, and I don’t sit down. It almost certainly is the type of place that beats a person down over time as they pay minimum wage and don’t offer much in the way of benefits. It is very clear that nobody enjoys working there. That’s why I try to liven things up by trying on funny hats. Don’t get me wrong, I have fun and we laugh a lot while I’m there, but I wouldn’t want to be stuck there five days a week. Which reminds me, I’ve worked or done community service now for 14 straight days and I’m feeling pretty good. Five more days of work after this stretch and I’ll be taking next Saturday off, which I will use to finish a project for my Grandma. It will hardly seem like work and it will be great to see a member of my family that I have not been able to see for over a month.

My schedule is packed for this next week. Meetings, fellowship, free time, work, I can’t wait. It will be really nice to pick up where I left off with my sponsor reading the Big Book, and finally getting a start on these steps that I’ve heard so much about. I really need them in my life because I’ve gone a bit downhill in the last month. I’m kind of a dick, and that’s not what I want to be. It’s tough being cooped up and I think it has definitely begun to get to me. In the month of restriction, only one person visited me. One. There’s got to be a reason for that. And I assume it’s me and not that I’ve chosen to have only ass holes as friends. Oh, and that one person wasn’t even family. So, maybe I’ve come to be a little bitter, but I unquestionably haven’t reached out to people to come spend time here, but why would I living with my mom? Yep, I need to keep on working on that change that I started before they took my time from me. This hasn’t been quite like a return trip to prison, but it’s as close as I’d care to get.

This has been the hardest time for me since my release. I have tried so hard to remain positive but I can only hold out for so long before I start to crack. OOOh! Did I say crack!? That’s one of my triggers, and now I feel like smoking a little crack. I mean, I’m joking a little there, but this month has been filled with urges, spontaneous thoughts of use, perfect opportunities to use and get away with it, and many, many pictures of delicious beer passing in front of my eyes at work. But I’m stronger than all of those triggers. I’m better than that, and I know the only path they can send me down. And a week from now, my spirits will be up, the sun will be shining, and I will at last be on that beautiful road to freedom.

The Wrench

For about two years I managed a tiny, hot, run down kitchen in the small town of Fountain, MN, population just over 400 according to the internet, where I get all of my information these days. If I remember correctly, though, the town sign says 363. I’m probably wrong.

Anyhow, the kitchen I worked in at The Bent Wrench was no bigger really than the kitchen found in most homes, but it had appliances designed for high output. When I started there the place had a menu pretty much designed to go from freezer to plate, not my cup of tea. I renovated the menu and made everything I could from scratch, including the sauces we used on our famous “Wing Night.” I even made a super-hot wing sauce that I named The Facemelter and had a contest to win a shirt by eating 12 wings or something like that. It was all the rage on food shows back then and I thought I would try my hand at it. It wasn’t very successful in a town that generally only uses both Norwegian spices, salt and pepper. But on occasion there would be somebody that ordered something other than honey BBQ and they seemed to think it was a good dare.

It was an okay place to work for a while. I was a bit of a mess. I rarely went in without a hangover or half a buzz and to be honest, my boss set unrealistic goals for me and at some point, I just stopped caring.  But I kept going. Through the heat, the frustration, and the lack of decent pay, I trudged on. I thought that maybe someday, the boss would pay me what she had paid the last overwhelmed kitchen manager there, but she never even came close. This was during the time when ground beef went from 99 cents a pound to over $3, and chicken wings did about the same. It wasn’t my fault, but I feel like the burden of finding all of that money in-between was put on my back, and I was held responsible for the lack in profits, which I think were still average, if not better than, for a restaurant.

This was also the place I was working one day when I saw an old face sitting at the bar. I recognized him immediately, and knew he was trouble. He had the shriveled face of a long time meth user, and the empty stare of a man depressed by the long term effects of the drug. I hadn’t used in about eight years at the time, but little did I know, my life would change in just a few short days.

The night it happened I was drunk as usual, but the bar was closed and all of my friends were asleep. I recalled from the other night, my old friend said he had moved into town just a couple blocks away. I weighed the consequences in my head, said fuck it, and went over there. I stayed awake for the next four days. I didn’t do anything but work and smoke meth. No food, no alcohol. I quit drinking! Boy was I proud. It was the start of a two-year bender that lead directly to prison without passing Go. I did collect many $200, but it was all for naught.

I absolutely do not blame anybody other than myself for how things went down, so if that’s how it came off, I apologize. I made the conscious decision to do what I did for selfish reasons. I didn’t have much that I owned at the time, but eventually I lost it all. More importantly, I discarded my real friends that cared about me, lost that job and another (down in Lanesboro), and spiraled down into the deepest bottom I’ve ever known. I became a drug dealer and I was proud of it. I really enjoyed my hours, and the pay was way better than any restaurant I’ve ever worked in. But you already know that story, don’t you?