Food and I, we're friends.

It was about a month ago that I got on the phone with my parents. Despite the daily grind, I was feeling good about my career. Had a new perspective.

“I can’t tell you how or why, but I can just tell that things are coming together,” I told them. “I’m not going to start looking for another job, not yet, not in this market.”

I paused.

“But I can’t tell you why, but I just have this feeling that my next job is not going to be traditional. It’s not going to come from the usual sources. It’s not going to be from Monster or CareerBuilder. It won’t be a corporation.”

I continued. They were used to hearing about me and my so-called intuition.

“All I know is, it won’t be the normal thing. I’m going to meet someone. Maybe I’ll be out around the city. Maybe it’ll be through a friend. But I’ll meet someone that will need my help.”

And, again, I went on:

“I just want my next move to be for something I really LOVE. Not just for money and not just for any ‘ole marketing job.”

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And what do I love? I love food. Wine.

“You’re a foodie.” My Dad declared this once on the phone, like a judge. Like stating a black-and-white factoid, or as though reading something from the newspaper. “You need to start writing about food.”

“I know, I will, but…”

“Listen, you write in your blog about what you had for lunch! You put up pictures of picnics!”

“Yeah, I get that, I just…”

“You need to write about food.”

“Okay.”

And I’ll never forget when my boyfriend of three years and I broke up. The night that I drove down to the Marina, to his place, to get my things. I drove south on the 405 from Brentwood, choking back tears, wondering if I was going to be able to face him. I called him to let him know I was on the way.

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes,” I said. My voice broke on the phone, a fault line of emotion.

“Ok, I’ll come down. I have everything packed in boxes.”

“I can come up if you wan—“

“No, it’s best I just come down. I can meet you outside.”

“Okay,” I gave in. “But…did you pack the wine?”

Despite the live wires of emotion playing on the phone, he burst out laughing, a good, hearty sound.

“Jo, yes, I packed your wine. Don’t worry, you’ll get your wine.” He continued to chuckle.

“Even the Mosby stuff? Remember I bought a few more bottles than you—“

“Jo, yup, got your wine. You’ll get your wine back.”“Perfect.” Grin.

And what about just my pure, crisp memories of food? The night my first LA roomie and I man-handled a turkey in our kitchen sink; how we dropped it several times while screaming, how I refused to dip my hand in to grab the giblets?

How my friend’s fiancé woke up this morning, talking about the cream of tomato soup that I made them yesterday, how he can’t wait to eat it after he gets out of school late tonight.

And how I associate good times with food and wine. Stories with old friends, family dinners, celebrations.

After all, food is love.

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And so it was that a week ago, I saw an ad online. It wasn’t well written. It was short and choppy. Not impressive in the least. It was a Chef, starting a new restaurant. A very well known chef.

But he was looking for an intern, and I thought, “Screw the intern, take me!”

And so I shot off a note, written in haste in between projects at work. I sent in my resume, which could have been updated more, could have been scanned just once more, but there was no time for that. I just shot it off blindly, shrugged.

Forgot about it.

And four hours later, as I was stretching before my kickboxing class, I saw the light on my Blackberry blinking.

Chef wanted to talk.

And then the next day, phone tag. I ran out of work, breathless when stepping off the elevators, to catch the calls.

It was so easy.

“We like you, we want to work with you. We’re excited about this,” I was told.

And so, last night, I pulled up to a loft condo downtown Los Angeles, Chef’s home. Checked my make up in the mirrors of my car. Straightened the dress I was wearing. Waited for him to come downstairs to fetch me, to cook me dinner, to welcome me to the restaurant.

There was a small group of us. They promptly gave me a business plan to read. Showed me the restaurant space and I wandered around and fell in love and left the site with sawdust on my black dress and in my hair. We bantered over the price of wine, the catering menu. Ran our hands alongside the bar and admired knots in the wood of the dining tables.

And I drove home several hours later, as though in a dream.

Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the beginning.

My time in the food industry.