The Way You Do Anything..
A funny thing happened today while getting my breakfast sandwich. A reminder of sorts.
The request was simple: a bacon, egg, and cheese on sourdough. I’ve eaten it for years, a ritual as familiar as tying my shoes, drinking caramel macchiatos or refilling my zippo lighter every weekend. But this morning, thanks to an open kitchen design, I had the rare privilege of watching its creation unfold before me.
The man behind the counter was not a chef in the way Michelin stars define them, but he was good. Not good in the mediocre, "yeah, he shows up to work" kind of way. Good in the way that suggests a quiet, steady excellence honed by repetition.
The bread? Lightly toasted, crisp at the edges, soft in the center: the perfect foundation. The egg? Seasoned just enough, folded into an elegant little envelope with cheese tucked inside, ensuring no bite was left behind. The mayonnaise (which I have strong opinions about) was spread with purpose, reaching every inch of bread with democratic fairness. And the bacon, three strips, cracked in half, laid with intention. No thoughtless pile, no careless overlap. A structure. A blueprint. A sandwich made not just with ingredients, but with respect. With love.
And I, dear reader, saw myself in him.
Years ago, I worked in a kitchen, manning the grill station. It was a job I hated while I had it, hot, brutal, unforgiving, but one I now remember with something close to love. I worked next to another guy, his nickname was Happy, and he was anything but that. A man who made the same food as me, but you wouldn’t have known it by looking. His dishes had all the right parts but none of the care. They were food in the most technical sense, but they weren’t meals.
Over time, something funny started happening. When the waitresses put in their staff meal tickets, hungry, exhausted, running on caffeine(or harder things) and stubbornness, they started adding a little note at the bottom: Make sure Marvin makes this. Even when I wasn’t on that station. Even when someone else was technically closer, faster, they wanted me.
And that, dear reader, is the reminder I mentioned.
The way you do anything is the way you do everything.
When I cooked, I cared. Not just about the taste, but the presentation, the experience, the small details that turned something necessary into something meaningful. Cooking was an act of love, but also one of self mastery, an exercise in patience, precision, and holding myself to a higher standard. If you can make art with bread, meat, and cheese, you can make art with anything.
And now, I do.
I’ve traded my spatula for a camera, my griddle for lights, my sandwiches for photographs. But the philosophy remains unchanged. I still bring my best ingredients, film, light, composition, intention. And you, dear reader, are the final ingredient. The most important one.
Because I was always an artist. And you were always beautiful.
