Things I googled today:
What is price of 4 lb. bag of sugar?
How to boil alcohol out of jelly?
How much is in a packet of yeast?
It’s a new day. My lovely, safe, former job is over. I gave my notice a little more than two weeks ago. I then froze up, and mostly went through the next fourteen days breathing hard through my nose, and pretending I was a light-hearted person who finds adventure whimsical and exciting. By not writing here or posting on social media, or by speaking to only a handful of friends about it, I mostly pretended like this wasn’t happening.
Here’s the thing: that first step is scary. It just is. It didn’t matter how many days I spent at my previous job, wishing badly, I could be at this new job, doing this new work. It didn’t matter that I could be grumpy with my delightful co-workers, resentful of them for not being the farm, the kitchen, my man. It doesn’t matter there’s a relatively solid platform in place, regarding pay and work distribution, to rely on. It’s just scary.
Two days into my new job, Kitchen Manager, and I’m finally talking about it. As if, now that I’m two days out of my old job and two days into my new job, that’s when it’s official. IT IS THE WEIRDEST THING. Four days ago, I was this. Today, I am this.
It took such small steps to make such big actions. “I need to turn in my notice.” A sheet of paper, with a few sentences, a signature, a date, and a sad smile and it was done. I still haven’t social media-ed about it. My fiancé did, today. He wrote a lovely post, with shots of me working in this kitchen, that’s still not fully equipped, looking almost professional. I’m still not ready. And yet, the universal reality: once it’s on social media, it must be true. It must be real. It must be irreversible.
Today was the first day I did real work in the kitchen. We’re still waiting to be inspected and we’re still gathering all our supplies. Today was a makeshift day, using cooking utensils from both houses. An extra measuring cup from my house, a skillet, and two pots I no longer need. From his, a big plastic spoon for stirring, a silicon baking tray, a wonky little pairing knife, and a set of big silver mixing bowls. From both of us canning lids and 1/2 pint glasses, all sterilized within an inch of their existence in the kitchen’s fancy pants dishwasher.
He gave me the go-ahead: “You’re the boss; I’m just here to help.” We got to playing around. Bread and jam, in this case, English Muffin Bread (my mom’s recipe, a classic) and wine jelly, a new thing for us, but, frankly, amazing. We’re working on what we already have, me, a solid breakfast bread recipe, him, a sister who owns and operates a small winery there on the farm. Whatever my panic and hesitation, we have some real assets on our side.
This was Day 2. Writing about Day 1 might have been dull. Paperwork, emails, and lots of focused breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth. Today was different. Real, physical work made this tangible. Those small steps led to this. I’m still operating with panic in my belly, but I’m working through it. And now I’m writing about it. Now it’s on the internets. It must be real. So here’s my prayer and my decision: it’s done, walk forward. Eyes on the road, not the rearview mirror.