First in

First up, apologies for the as ever intermittent nature of posting here. It's been a year. Suffice to say all that stuff you hear about hosputality being in serious trouble is, well, it's not far off. Working harder than ever, busier than ever and yet still, somehow, treading water and getting nowhere. 

This isn't, however, a post to whinge (though it could perhaps serve as a gentle reminder that if you do have a pub, cafe or restaurant that's dear to you, maybe make an excuse to pop in sooner rather than later, if you can), more to explain that the pub is taking up even more of my headspace than usual, hence lack of posts/contact/general human interaction, as rhe answernto the the eternal question, how do you more with less, is generally, um, me.

That said, the apology isn't too distantly related to what I wanted to write about today, which is the peculiar joy to be had from being first in the kitchen of a morning.

Naturally, as the work piles up, and to keep hours down,  I've been getting in the kitchen earlier and earlier of a morning. Living above the pub doesn't help, I'll kid myself I'm starting at nine, but popping in at seven to put deliveries away the temptation just to do a couple of teensy-weensy prep jobs, you know, to save time later, becomes almost overwhelming, and before you know it it's eleven and the other chefs are coming in and shaking their heads at the old man with the almost-completed prep list.

But there is pleasure to be had in the early starts. The quiet, for one, the lack of pressure, the chance to be alone with what passes for my thoughts. Early starts speak of possibility, of today maybe, just maybe being the day that you get on top of things.

An exercise in self-delusion, of course. Anyone who's worked in a professional kitchen knows that you're never truly on top of things. But I've long been of the opimion that if you can't kid yourself that it'll all be alright in the end, nobody would bother getting out of bed. Self delusion is a human superpower.

And so, for those few quiet hours, there is the chance to impose a bit of order on an inchoate world, to make sure that I'm as ready as I can be, to pretend for a while that I'm a functioning, competent adult.

And there are moments of grace. It was my privilege, a couple of mornings back, to suddenly be in the middle of a nest of wrens fledging in the yard outside, gently encouraging a couple of impossibly tiny brand new birds back out of the door they'd veered in after exploding from the nest. I spent the rest of the morning listening to the contact calls chirping away outside.

Early starts mean chats with the cleaner, and the various delivery people, they mean quietly tidying up some of the mistakes of yesterday, catch some of the gaps in the ordering, make a couple of phone calls, head a few problems off at the pass. They're the chance to actually plan and prep specials properly, rather than staring wild-eyed at the fridge in the hope that something turns up. 

They are knowing that you are realistically doing everything within your gift to keep things running smoothly. They are, in short, a good thing, or so I keep telling myself as I try to find time elsewhere in the day for housework, for the gym, for all the stuff that isn't work.

It is to be hoped, of course, that starting early also means finishing early, but I haven't quite mastered that yet. Still, one step at a time, eh?