You know how people like to tell you it’s about the journey, not the destination? Well, as it turns out . . . they’re right. But that doesn’t mean that the journey you’re on isn’t going to go through long expanses of sucking miserably. Sure, people tell you that middle school is awkward, or high school is rough, or maybe college isn’t even for you, but they don’t warn you about transitioning into adulthood itself.
I like to call this terrible time your “adultolescence”—a secondary pubescence that takes place throughout your twenties and sometimes well into your thirties. For me, it began at the age of twenty-three, almost immediately upon graduating from college, and continues in varying forms to today. (Though if I’m being really honest, I can go ahead and say that the sleepless nights of “What am I even doing with my life?” probably began around the age of twelve and hadn’t, until very recently, even started to go away.)
Adultolescence begins like this: The patterns and routines that once determined your path (school, living at home, etc.) align anew and suddenly you find yourself in the midst of an emotional cyclone that has your adrenal system oscillating between utter depression and sheer panic. You may find that your friend groups have split after the bond of shared education or proximity ends. If you’re lucky, though, you may find yourself surrounded by friends who share the same rockin’ boat.
For me, my adultolescence truly began when I moved from Berkeley to San Francisco to work as:
1. An office manager/personal assistant to an eccentric former makeup artist who ran her own boutique management agency out of the basement of her home.
2. A cubicle jockey who specialized in proofreading Japanese instruction manuals that had been translated into English.
(I was one of the lucky ones with employment in 2010! Bask in the glamour of the detached twenties elite!)
The Basement Agency mentioned above was about three blocks away from the apartment I shared with my two best friends (who were a couple, and I was a brokenhearted OKCupid single ready to mingle . . . more on that in PART 3: SO THIS IS LOVE). The owner of the business lived in Cabo for most of the year and rented out the top portion of her home to tourists visiting San Francisco. (PRO TIP: September is the best time for Bay Area basking.) This meant that while running the business from below, I was also given the task of monitoring the temporary tenants as acting property manager. It was solitary work. My routine consisted of turning the volume of the computer all the way up while I napped on the floor in between Skype calls. I worked from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m., with a thirty-minute lunch, and since I was only blocks from my home I would walk back for a peanut butter sandwich with a side of really foul cheap whiskey.
Four days a week, I would leave at dusk to take the Muni into the financial district to slam coffee and proofread. I called this “white-collar mining.” Basic typos were like gemstones nestled in white stacks of paper dense as rock. My coworkers consisted of a cast of characters whose personal details I will spare out of respect for their (possible) wishes to remain out of the public eye. Frankly, I enjoyed this work (and their company) a great deal because it meant that I did not have to be alone. There is great camaraderie in mutual misery, and I would take hand cramps and coffee chats over floor naps and basement doors any day.
Then I got transferred to the New York office and My Drunk Kitchen happened and then became now.
As I write this, though, I look back at the person I was during that time. Someone who felt so deeply lost because she did not have a destination she was working toward. Someone who was disenchanted with the adulthood she’d longed for and trapped in the anticipation of a future she couldn’t see. Someone improvising the present moment, but with much ennui and very little joie de vivre. (I think cookbooks need to have occasional French in them, non? Roux. Poulet. Julia Child.) I was not the person I wanted to be, and I didn’t even know who or what I wanted to be ultimately. What did it matter that I was young with no children and a bit of spending money on the side? I was going to be miserable because there was simply no other way to be.
Frankly, I think that part of why this transition into adulthood is so hard is that no one prepares you for it. They don’t talk about the existential crisis of modern existence in health class! They don’t tell you that your friends are going to get married while you’re still single and it’s going to make you question everything! And they certainly don’t tell you that happiness is not a lasting, continuous expression of ecstasy, but much more likely to be a sense of resignation after a long day at a job you hate while you return to whatever home you have to find that your roommates left all their dishes in the sink and you just can’t even. You just can’t.
I don’t know why people teach kids about “pimples” and “hormones” and “armpit hair,” and refrain from telling them that if they don’t achieve their billion-dollar dreams at the age of twenty-one, there will still be much more to life. And that when you fail at your first job, it isn’t going to be the end of the world. And eventually you will realize that each person’s world is different and your only job is to figure out what your best world can be.
Let me give you an example of how this might look.
Let’s say in the setting of a kitchen.
Two people are preparing for the same potluck.
Person A decides to make the kale salad that they always bring because it’s good, good for you, and consistently brings favorable reviews from the other attendees.
Person B decides to try their hand at baking a soufflé, because, hey, the potluck happens to be at their place and frankly they’ve never made a soufflé before so maybe it will be super good and great, who knows?
Person A leaves for the farmers’ market to buy the kale they know they need along with some other items for the household en générale. (More French!!)
Person B goes online to try to find a good recipe for soufflé that’s relatively easy but also hey there is a new article on Buzzfeed about the twenty-seven highest-looking dogs and cats so gotta peep this first.
Person A returns from the farmers’ market with produce and a freshly baked loaf of bread. Also, some locally pressed walnut oil that will go very well with the dark fig balsamic they’ve been saving for a special occasion. But let’s be wild and just make that special occasion today. I mean, why the heck not!
(Apparently, Person A is the type of person who uses the word “heck” so I think you can tell a lot about them now.)
Person B returns to the kitchen after e-mailing the article about the twenty-seven highest-looking dogs and cats to all of their friends who are coming tonight with the subject: “THIS IS US IN 4 HOURS.” Pulling out a cookbook from somewhere they read about soufflés for a second before deciding to make a snack. There’s still an hour or so until the potluck after all. So might as well have a snack. Maybe even a nap? Soufflé is like a dessert thing anyway so can happen at the end of the night.
Person A has now washed and massaged the fresh kale. Next they will drizzle it with rice vinegar, a splash of balsamic, and some olive oil. Then Person A is elated to discover that there are, in fact, some pomegranate seeds left over from last night’s Moroccan couscous cooking adventure. What luck!
Person B has decided to nap and is napping.
Person A is going to lightly toast some almond slices and toss them in before leaving.
Person B has woken up with twenty minutes left before guests start to arrive so basically this means that there is no choice but to forsake all hope of cooking something themself and instead just clean the place. Hosting at all is enough.
Person A leaves their home, arriving ten minutes early to the home of Person B.
Person B is so stoked about the salad! Man, Person B would love to learn how to make it sometime.
Person A could teach them.
Person B thinks that’s a great idea . . . also . . . would Person A mind helping with the dishes in the sink real quick?
Person A doesn’t mind at all.
So, the question is this: Which person is happily surviving their adultolescence? Maybe even flourishing in it? Which person do you want to be? The answer?
TRICK QUESTION! IT’S BOTH PEOPLE!
THEY ARE BOTH HAPPY BECAUSE THEY ACCEPT THEMSELVES FOR WHO THEY ARE!!!!!
You see, it doesn’t matter that Person A is clearly good at doing things and knows all about planning, timing, and follow-through, whereas Person B seems to be someone who can’t get anything done but for some reason still has friends kind enough to help with the dishes. Basically, they both have learned how to love and live in whatever experience they are in—whether it’s on the way toward accomplishing something greater . . . or not. What matters is that both people aren’t judging themselves, or each other, which is really the only thing you can hope for while you’re trying to make it through adultolescence. In the section ahead, you will find recipes that you can make or bring or serve at any sort of gathering. Or even make for a party of one. Drink pairings required included.
But let me tell you one last thing. As it turns out, that feeling of being lost or listless or never achieving your potential doesn’t contain itself within any certain decade of life; it just lives in you until you learn how to cope with it or let it go. So, maybe this next section of the book could apply to anyone no matter what age they are.
Either way, in the end, becoming an “adult” really only means one thing:
You are now obligated to bring dishes to potlucks. Maybe even sometimes host one yourself.
Isn’t that horrifying?