Plonk & Pleasure: a manifesto

Well, baby, it’s been a year. Happy Birthday, blog. I haven’t even come close to reaching the goals that I set for myself when I started this venture. By the one year mark, I was really hoping to have at least 1,000 Instagram followers, some sort of income associated with my writing, and a local reputation as a respectable food and wine writer. (Respectable? Me? Maybe I mean notorious?) I’ve fallen short of these goals in a big way. But, it would seem, I’ve achieved things that I never anticipated…perhaps better things. What is a thousand Instagram followers compared to new, meaningful, tangible friendships? What is getting paid to write when compared to touching people’s hearts with my words? (Haha…I still very badly want to get paid.) What is earning a reputation as a skilled food writer–oh wait, I’ve begun chipping away at that one. A local chef hung my words near their desk. I don’t know if the ink-covered paper is still hanging there–but any number of days that my words served to inspire, to whisper ‘keep going,’ or to simply bring a smile is more than I ever fully anticipated. That knowledge alone can break my heart and then glue it back together in an instant. That singular action makes all of the effort I’ve tirelessly poured into this entirely worth it for me. Silly as it may seem, knowing that my words moved someone actually means infinitely more to me than money…it just doesn’t pay my bills, unfortunately. I’ve been told by someone who I believe I can trust that I’ve given people hope. I truly didn’t understand the impact that I’ve had on others. I never thought I’d be responsible for spreading that dirty four letter word amongst the masses: yet here we are, friend. It’s just you and me–and perhaps all we have is hope–but maybe it can be enough, for now. You know, it’s a symbiotic relationship, really. If I can see the good in you, others surely can. If you can see the worth in me, perhaps others will, too. I like this sort of hopeful thinking. It’s new to me, but I think it will be good for us in the long run: healthy for our hearts and brains. 

There was a recent push within my little community to help get my Instagram page to 500 followers by my one year anniversary–half of my initial goal, but certainly a more attainable dream. Numbers shouldn’t matter. In a way, they don’t. But, if we’re being honest: my brain uses them as a tangible measure of my success. It shouldn’t. I need to work on that. For now, it’s my reality. When I started Plonk & Pleasure, I quite literally knew no one in Fort Wayne–not a soul. All of the friends I’ve made since moving here have been because of this blog. So, to see friends (people who just a few short months ago were strangers) rally in support of me was overwhelming, to say the least. I got misty-eyed…just kidding, I wept like a baby. It was something small, but it truly meant so much to me, so I just want to ensure that each and everyone who shared their support knows how deeply touched I was. It meant the world to me. I was honestly at a point where giving up felt like the best option. You helped me to realize that the only option is to keep going. I feel seen. I feel understood. That is the best gift anyone has ever given me. Thank you.

When I started this wild, delicious adventure, I believe I didn’t fully comprehend what I was doing. Perhaps it would be more honest to say I misunderstood what I was doing. I thought I wanted to be a food and wine critic until I realized that 1) I don’t want to be responsible for having any serious influence over someone else’s opinion 2) I don’t believe I have any right to fuck with someone’s income via negative reviews and 3) I don’t want to write down anything that might negatively impact the mental health of another. Words last forever. I won’t use my words to potentially inflict an unending sort of mental anguish on another. I won’t. If somebody lets me live in their head rent-free, I hope it’s because I dished out a compliment so excellent that they don’t ever want to let go of it. 

Just a few weeks ago, too drunk on my front porch, a local chef asked me who I was writing for–and I didn’t know the answer to that question. They asked if I was writing for chefs. I froze–I hadn’t really considered my audience. Perhaps that is the biggest mistake that I’ve made in my first year of writing Plonk & Pleasure. Growing this blog from nothing, I was happy to have anyone reading–so I never thought much about who I wanted to read my words. Selfishly, I think I truly started writing for nobody but myself–because I had to. Because I am a creature who must write: whether or not anyone will read the fruits of my labors. Multiple unpublished novels–because I’ve hoarded them away from the public like precious jewels–serve as testimonials that I will blacken pages for the benefit of no one but myself.

In the last year, I’ve learned so much about what I didn’t want to do with my words. Learning the lesson was no picnic. There were days, more than I’d like to admit, where I struggled to accept that I’d written anything more than glorified Yelp reviews; stupid, slabbering paragraphs of little to no value filled with bottom-shelf fanciful language about whatever I’d most recently shoved in my brainless gob–read by few, appreciated by fewer. I’d get mean with myself and let my brain convince me I was more of a Karen than a writer. Who died and told me that my opinion on the subject of food and wine matters? No one. Unproductive thinking? You bet. Unhealthy thinking? I know. Solvable? Perhaps. I fear that self-doubt will always be in the back of my mind: but I’m learning to control the volume of the critic in my head. I do my best to turn that fucker all the way down to two and then blast some early 2000s alt to drown the cranky bastard out–in case you were curious what the inside of my head sounds like most days. I’m a tough cookie, but my asshole-brain knows exactly when to suckerpunch me to leave the biggest impact; it doesn’t matter how tough I am once I’ve knocked myself on my ass. Getting back up again is hellish. Staring myself down and stripping away all the self-deprecation, self-effacement, and self-hatred was a painful process: but entirely necessary to see the growth and progress I’ve made in the past year. It’s now so clear to me that I quickly grew past what I thought I wanted out of this experience–but then I never defined what I did want. I’m sorry. That was careless of me. I’ll try to do better in the future, but I’m human and I’m built to fuck up. In fact, I’m really good at it. I’m flawed: perhaps more than most. But…I’m trying my hardest. Please, stick with me. Show me grace and patience–and I’ll always do my utmost to return the courtesy.

About a week after the drunken conversation on my front porch, I was riding in the car with my best friend. They were talking to me about my writing. (They help to edit most of it, so they probably know it better than anyone else.) Without being asked, without me even bringing up the subject, seemingly out of nowhere: they told me who I’ve been writing for. It didn’t surprise me at all, but somehow it also floored me. Perhaps I was too close to see what’s been so clear to others–it happens. More likely, for some reason I haven’t been able to unpack yet, I knew the answer all along but didn’t want to accept it. So, allow me to elucidate for anyone who has been just as lost as I was on this subject. 

I am writing for the chefs, the line cooks, the bakers, the geniuses, creatives, dreamers, and makers. My words are for the vintners and brewers. I write for the small business owners; the doers. Whether your hands are crafting or carrying plates, my words are for you. If the hungry consumers, the foodies, and gourmandizers consume my content and are so inspired as to support their local community through eating and imbibing–all the better. I secretly want them to be guided to feast, to enjoy, to support. Because I want to see you win. I want to see everyone win: and I believe the shared experience of dining is how we achieve this–together. But don’t ever question why my words focus on the positive and, frankly, ignore the negative. I’m writing for hard-won egos: some unflappable, some fragile. I am writing for hands that have been burned and sliced but carry-on, unwavering; for feelings calloused by experience then subsequently swallowed to protect any shred of delicacy that might secretly remain. I’m writing for the delicious actions led by love, passion, and a little bit of self-loathing; for the ones who despite years of training, earned talent, and masterfully learned skills still sometimes question if they are enough. My words are meant to help combat the shitty tip you got from some chooch, when we both know you deserved so much better–and to gently remind that the couple of meager dollars doled out by some diner often has literally zero correlation to how good you are at your job and it has even less still to do with your worth as a person. I’m writing in hopes that you don’t cry in the walk-in or while driving home after work. I’m writing to help combat the voice screaming in your head to do better, go harder–when you’ve already given too much of yourself. I’m writing to remind you of the good that you bring into the world–it’s more than enough. 

If this doesn’t make sense, then I’m probably not writing for you–but you’re still welcome to read. In fact, I want you to. Is a birthday cake really for you if it’s not your birthday? No: but you’re meant to partake and enjoy. It’s something that’s not made for you, but is shared with you. When it comes to my writing, there’s plenty of cake for everyone. There’s room enough for everybody at this table, whoever you may be. We should all be feasting–together. But I like carrot cake for my birthday. Some people don’t like carrot cake any day of the week–and that’s okay. Maybe you feel like carrot cake is on every menu in town and you’re getting a little sick of it. You’re entitled to your opinion: but I’m still going to have the cake that I want because it’s my birthday. And besides: just because you haven’t liked other carrot cakes in the past doesn’t mean you won’t like this one. Our tastes change all the time. Maybe you like carrot cake more than you think. So if you’re annoyed that the bounty that is my writing isn’t honest enough, that it is not well balanced, that it could stand to be more salty, or is distasteful to you for lack of harsh criticism–simply look at what I’m not saying. Watch for the subjects I deftly dance around. I whirl around the downside with the trained precision of Fred Astaire. I sugar coat it to the point that you don’t even realize you’ve swallowed the poison. I’m so good at it: you’ve been missing it this whole time. That’s on you, not me. I can put the nutmeg in the mashed potatoes; your palate determines whether you detect it or not.

Like a good chef, what I craft comes from the heart. I have put countless hours of careful thought and consideration into the importance of what I do say–and even more precise care and consideration has been given to what I don’t say. I stand firm in my decision that in my little corner of the internet we don’t beat down our fellow humans for being vulnerable and selflessly sharing pieces of themselves with us. We lift them up and thank them for sharing–for sacrificing so much of themselves so that we may dine. We tell them what they’ve done that made an impact. We acknowledge their accomplishments. We hope it gives them the confidence to keep doing the good stuff well…because we accept that all humans are flawed. No person is perfect, just as no meal is ever truly perfect. But damn it—aren’t we all just constantly trying to achieve this unachievable standard and then beating the shit out of ourselves when we fall short? We should probably stop doing that. 

Lest anyone accuse me of dishonesty, let me confess that in many ways I am also still writing this for myself–because in many ways, I am not unlike my chosen audience. I am going to fucking lose it if you don’t let me write about the flavors of my life. Want to see my best impression of Girl Interrupted? Take away my ability to put word to page: especially where food and wine are concerned. Starve me–both physically and artistically–and watch how I perish. Dramatic? Perhaps. Honest? To a fault. But, I am certain that you will understand: because we both suffer from passion. Driven beyond desire, beyond compulsion–it is a need. As necessary as breath is to life. We’re both creating because we have no other choice. We’re simply using different mediums. If I could choose not to write, I would. If I could choose to do literally anything else and feel like even half-a-human doing it: I’d say, “Sign me up!” But I can’t. I suspect neither can you. It’s a little bit nice to be understood, isn’t it? So, I’ll be writing about food and wine; probably for the rest of my life. I don’t like to make big promises like that. None of us can see the future with any sort of clarity–but I’d like to believe that we’ll all be in this together for a long time. 

What I won’t ever be doing is critiquing food–with the exception of the occasional cereal or chicken nuggie review. These little deviations don’t count. Corporations aren’t people. Instead I’ll keep on writing my love letters, and using all the weirdest (but ultimately kind) words to tell you how food has fed me; body and soul. I think we all can agree that food is a love language–and maybe I’m just a little bit in love with each and every one of you and the toothsome, tantalizing, tasty things you turn out–I want to focus on that: because it’s beautiful. I’m never going to overwhelm a kitchen by ordering every plate on the menu, insisting they all come out at the same time, waiting to try even a single bite of anything until each plate has arrived at my table as demanded, and then have the audacity to write that the food wasn’t hot enough–without ever acknowledging that the wound was self-inflicted. If that’s what it means to be a food critic: I think we both know, I will never be that. I love you too much to put you through that. I’m never going to call a restaurant and ask for a comped six-top “because I’m an influencer.” I think we both know–I’m no influencer, and while I’ll graciously accept what is offered to me, I never expect to be given anything. That’s not how you treat people you love. I’m not a critic. I can throw daggers and pretend like my palate is superior, sweetie, but I have zero interest in this silly, ego-driven way of writing. I’m not an influencer. Fort Wayne already has their fair share of food influencers. Respect. Many of them are doing truly amazing, commendable work to champion local businesses and bolster the local economy. Absolutely zero shade to the babes who are slaying–we’re just different beasts. I’m a writer. That’s all I know how to be, and I will choose writing over everything else; every day, always.

So, we understand each other. We know that what is appetizing to one person may not necessarily appeal to another. We accept that taste is extremely personal–and that our personal preferences are no reason to tear down another person’s dreams, take shots at their livelihood, or question their levels of skill and commitment to their craft. We understand that a scale of one through ten is no way to judge another human being. We must never forget that behind every dish there is the person who created it. This is why I choose to speak and write with kindness: because I can’t forget the human–and you shouldn’t allow yourself to, either. These people should be celebrated. I’m writing this for the humans with their hands in the game. I see you. I appreciate you. Keep going. Thank you for feeding me. And always: cook from the heart–please. Keep living your dream (for you and for me) because without you, I don’t get to live my dream. Like I said, it’s a symbiotic relationship.

So, happy one year anniversary, baby. Let’s raise a glass of whatever–but it’ll always be wine for me–and propose a toast to the chefs, the line cooks, the bakers, vintners, and brewers; the geniuses, creatives, dreamers, makers, and doers: whether your hands are crafting or carrying plates. To the hungry consumers, the foodies, and gourmandizers–the influencers, content creators, and people who feed their phones first. And of course, to the writer: who eats the dreams of others, drinks their ambitions, and bleeds words. I am only lucky enough to do so because all that you sacrifice of yourself makes it possible for me to be…well, me. Thank you for enabling me, tolerating me, feeding me, and giving me a home. No matter what happens now, come what may, at least the days that led me here have tasted so fucking delicious.