I think I've talked about my unraveling on here enough already—maybe not in a single, coherent post, but enough. This blog isn’t supposed to be about that. It’s about life after burnout. You can’t move on from something unless you get up and leave.

I assume everyone’s burnout is different, personal. For me, it feels like my façade has worn away, leaving me with my raw, base self. That’s its own kind of challenge. It’s not always wise to be authentic in today’s world. But there’s a certain charm in it; sometimes not being wise is fun. I feel freer than I ever have—free to be me.

It’s a struggle to maintain my mojo, though. I always have to keep an eye on it, like watching out for relapse after quitting smoking. It wouldn’t take much for me to slip back into my old life, and the temptations are always there. I have a much deeper understanding and sympathy for people who stay in or return to abusive relationships now.

On the plus side, I’ve been having a blast exploring the word “no.” It’s such a thrill. At first, it’s like being five and saying “shit” for the first time—it feels naughty. There’s something exhilarating about being defiant. I can’t wait to get so comfortable with it that saying “no” becomes second nature, just like cursing. I’ll punctuate my sentences with “no” the way I do with “fuck” now.

As for this food blog, I’m trying to take it seriously, but it’s tough. At the end of the day, you’re just another asshole with a website. Big deal, right? Anyone with a credit card and internet access can have a website. Hell, I’ve had one since 1995. You can still find it in the Wayback Machine if you know what to look for.

What I’m realizing, though, is that it actually is a big deal to a lot of people. It’s crazy. On the blogging side, it starts with Google and “Search Engine Optimization.” People are desperate to be seen—many depend on it for their livelihoods. So, they do whatever Google tells them to get listed. There are even special WordPress plug-ins designed to cater to Google’s whims. I suppose I could look into it, but I’m never going to care.

Yes, I’ve posted some recipes, and I originally thought I’d go that route, but I don’t think that’s what people really want. Most online recipes are just advertising platforms for affiliate links. If you can make money from that, more power to you—but it’s not for me. Too many restrictions. Too much potential for saying the wrong thing, which is a certainty for me. One of my early recipes referenced butt plugs, so unless Doc Johnson wants to sponsor me, I’m going to need a different approach.

A lot of the food bloggers focus on being family friendly and some cater to children. I’m not “family-friendly.” I don’t particularly like children—not because they’re children, but because I refuse to treat them deferentially, as modern parents expect. They’re just people, and they should be treated as such. To do otherwise is cruel.

Side note: When my generation started having kids, some people convinced themselves their offspring were special, calling them “Indigo Children.” Those kids turned into the more outspoken Millennials who think they have the right to tell you how to live your life. They should’ve treated them like people from the start. Just saying. I think humanity would be better served if more people realized they could’ve just as easily been a blowjob.

I know that sounds negative, but bear with me. Come over to the misanthropic side of the Force for a second. You can raise someone to believe they’re special, and they’ll grow up entitled, with delusions of moral superiority. Or you can raise them to understand they’re lucky to be here at all, and you’ll end up with an adult who has a healthy sense of their place in the universe.

Maybe. I don’t know. Apparently, it’s “morally wrong” to experiment on children or some such bullshit. I wasn’t paying attention.

I digress. Probably should’ve stopped at “buttplug.”

Anyway, last week, my wife and I were experimenting—not in the happy-fun way, but with her as my camera operator. Still not in the happy-fun way, come to think of it. I posted part of the video on Instagram. I loved how her voice sounded as she called me out for not knowing which end of the loin our chops came from. That was magic, and it’s what I want to bring to the video side.

I’ll never make the kind of polished videos I’d like to. YouTube, Instagram, my 1972 Kitchen of Darkness—there are too many constraints, and I’m just not that guy. I can appreciate a well-composed video—I’ve seen some stunning ones—but that’s beyond my reach. Instead, I want to make videos that are real. I think I captured that spirit with a couple of the Sunday Supper videos. Sure, there was editing, but they were largely genuine.

I saw a post on Threads last night. I still don’t know why Threads exists, but there it was. This girl was talking about how she’s published three cookbooks and written over 300 recipes, and she doesn’t consider herself a food blogger—she’s a “food expert.” Something about that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe she is an expert. Who am I to say? But my old instincts kicked in—I used to make “experts” cry for fun and profit—and I was irked.

Here’s the thing: to call yourself an expert in any field means to announce you’ve screwed up more than most people ever will. She didn’t come across like she’d ever messed up, which in my world makes her full of shit. Maybe she’s good—hell, I was good in my 20s—but there were levels of fuckups awaiting me I never dreamed of back then. Once she’s older and has a few serious misadventures under her belt, she’ll be rightfully embarrassed and probably a damn good cook.

That’s what I want to bring to the table. That’s my focus. I’m not an expert. I have experience, sure, but at 54, I haven’t screwed up enough to call myself an expert in food or cooking.

My philosophy has always been that learning is about exploration. Sure, I have decades of theory and knowledge under my belt. I understand techniques, and I know the physics and chemistry behind them. But even when I was cheffing professionally, I saw myself more as a food technician and production manager than anything else. In most American restaurants, the production manager part is what matters. When the doors open, you have to start shoveling food into the hungry maw and worry less about making art. Sorry, kids, but modern life is bullshit. All hat, no cattle, as we say down here.

That’s why I want people to know how to cook for themselves—to get a taste of what goes on in the back of the house. To understand what they’re demanding of the exhausted, hungover, underpaid staff. And also, because I think it’s important that people be able to cook for themselves. It’s a necessary life skill.

The other food bloggers—the real ones—they’re terrified. Terrified of losing revenue because Google changed a policy or a line of code. I get it. They can’t afford to be wrong. It’s the same for people relying on social media, trying to be content creators. One wrong move, and the algorithm exiles them to social Siberia, ending their dreams.

All this does is create a culture of sameness, where you have to be perfect as defined by the perfection of the moment. But life after burnout, this site, my cooking, my videos—it’s all about being okay with screwing up. Because there’s no real learning without messing up. It’s not safe. It’s risky. You could fail, and that’s life. You pick up, move on, or try again and find new mistakes to make.

Here’s an important rule of life, and some old-guy advice I can pass on:

“Never fuck up the same way twice. Always find new ways.” That’s what it means to be human.

That’s what life after burnout is for me. It’s regaining my humanity, that is, to be free to fuck up and learn without mistakes being the end of the world. I need to keep it real—not just for myself but for anyone else trapped in a system of unrealistic expectations. A system that doesn’t let people be people.

Not all recipes work. Not all are reproducible. I burn myself all the time. Hell, I tripped over the dog yesterday while fucking up the beef shank sandwich I’ve been dreaming of.

Souffles will fall and it’s OK.

It’s just food.