I love to cook. I am someone who once was the most arrogantly passionate cook in the kitchen. I went to school, then to my job, then back home only to cook and pore over my books even more. I learned as much from my own experimentation and research than I did as an apprentice . Now my cookbooks are stacked with a certain lackluster on my bookshelf. They aren’t enticing me. They aren’t luring me in like they once did. I have some I have barely yet looked at. I know how to pick em, but it seems they’re no longer picking me.

I’m not over cooking. The thought of that terrifies me, because I noticed a while ago that it’s the only thing I have a chance at being really good at. I mean, I have talent, I think. And while cooking and working in a professional kitchen are two different, albeit overlapping things, I think it’s safe to say, at this point, that I get how to do both.

But two years ago, I realized that I hadn’t read a novel in a while, or listened to anything but Neko. I felt out of it. The hours didn’t help, either. Neither did living where I did. But mostly, it was my own fault for being so focused on one thing. So I reintroduced some of these things into my life. I bought a guitar. I borrowed music and books from the library. And now I’m all diluted.

There’s a section in the book “The Creative Habit” which addresses this issue. Anyone who intends to focus on, and succeed in, a particular creative endeavor ought to put others aside. While it’s likely that we will be drawn to various outlets of creativity, and even be good at them, if we want to succeed at one (presumably the one we’re most passionate about or talented at), we have to forego investing too much time into other things.

As a cook, I’m often asked (in an incredulous tone, I might add) “So, you want to be a chef? Own your own place? What?” This is such a hard thing to answer, for a couple of reasons. One, to respond with an emphatic “YES!” means you’re actually insane. Or, you haven’t thought things through. Or, you’re hard, and already know you can do it. Running a kitchen, especially if it’s your own, means you can’t do anything else, ever, again, in your life. It’s so fucking intense that even the thought of it is making my grammar suffer right now. Two, it takes years of accumulated knowledge to be a chef. At least, it should if you respect the field. I wouldn’t expect to be the CEO of Radio Shack without years of prior experience. The same goes for cooking. There’s too much to know.  Most of us have been trained in French cooking, with the brigade system in place in some form or another, where positions are clearly defined and skill levels determined. While I don’t think that a reverence for tradition should hold people back, or that rules are best adhered to, I think a cook should work with the best for as long as they need to feel completely ready and comfortable to head a kitchen.

The final, and probably most daunting of considerations, is commitment. While I’ve met many types of chefs, with many differing personalities, one commonality among them is an energy and an undying perseverance. What scares me, is not that I’m completely devoid of those characteristics, but what it would mean to be utterly committed to maintaining them. I’m not the most driven at what I do, but I’m still pretty damn driven, and do want to be recognized for what I can do. I’m energized by cooking, especially when challenged with something new. I don’t want to be a line cook for the rest of my life; I can’t, my wrists will give out. But I’m scared to commit. Fear of failure, sure. But mostly, a fear of life passing me by.