HOURS IN THE DAY DON'T ADD UP TO A LIFE

HOURS IN THE DAY DON'T ADD UP TO A LIFE

I left traditional art making behind even before I graduated from SFAI. I began my career as a Chef in earnest and felt the draw to return home to DC where I felt more a part of a long and distinguished tradition that began with the modern French Culinary Invasion of the late 60’s- 70’s. I loved/love the demanding fast paced life. It’s physical, creative, and mentally all consuming. My desire to create not just a dish but to inhabit the life as art entirely. Leading a brigade, being the head of a large team, orchestrating the entire flow and management of TIME throughout a day, the next, and the one after…  Culminating in the precise execution of exquisite cuisine. Knowing it was all borne out of me; my thoughts, emotions, skills and desires. The compliments that come at the end of the night. It is a high difficult to explain. The kitchen culture, community, atmosphere, I always saw it as a larger construct of myself and a way to build around me the things I loved. The Choice to be with people I thought understood me. Everything for a price. The cost of time, 80-100 hours a week for nearly 20 years, and now as many as 33 have passed. The cost of lasting companionship, inhabiting the persona of a strong self directed female with the weight of responsibilities and an all consuming passion leaves little room for anyone not equally consumed. For all my romanticizing of the life I loved so much there wash a lot of turmoil, sadness, frustration, and unrequited love. A life full of intense dysfunctional relationships. A profession that is still male and unequal. A man easily possessing a wife at home to do the laundry, carry the babies, hand you a beer, and pat you on the back for all your hard work. A partner.  My most notable partner, Duncan was co-chef with me at Restaurant Nora. He was handsome, funny, talented, adoring, and very alpha. It is an amazing aphrodisiac to practice your craft alongside someone you have a quiet unspoken spoken language of physical movement. The mania of it all sustained so long that the depressive aftermath was almost unsurvivable. Christina my savior, a debt I will never be able to repay. My life post, a series of unremarkable accomplishments. A pattern of short lived relationships and regrets for pushing lovers away, not trying harder to keep the ones I loved. And here now stagnated, isolated out of fear, I punish myself. Accepting and enabling an alcoholic abuser. Playing the role of Cinderella to a much kinder ‘step-mohter’. Staying only for my animals and the beauty of the forest. Weighing each day by the plusses and minuses of the equation. Not altogether unhappy.