Don’t Rush the Chef: Why My Blogs Arrive Like Michelin-Star Meals (Not Fast Food)

There are days when an email lands in my inbox and I think, “This is it—this is the post-heart-failure stress test I did not ask for.” Today was one of those days. A reader (and I use that term loosely because this email was more like a Yelp review gone wild) wanted to know, in no uncertain terms, why I don’t post every day. They seemed to feel—no, expect—that I, their personal chronic illness content vending machine, should be coughing up blog posts daily, like one of those sad machines in a break room that eats your dollar and hands you nothing but regret.

Now, listen. I am deeply touched that anyone looks forward to my words. Truly. If you’ve hung in through the ramblings about sarcoidosis, prednisone-induced life choices, and the emotional rollercoaster of being a chronically ill chef who sometimes forgets what day it is—thank you. But I’m not your personal chef in an open kitchen. I’m more like the farm-to-table place that takes three hours to serve you a carrot because it was hand-picked by someone named Hugo at sunrise. Stay if you’re into the cuisine; don’t if you’re in a rush.

This email, however, was not that kind of feedback. Imagine a fast-food drive-thru customer who bangs on the window because their fries took longer than three minutes. Except instead of fries, it’s my heart and lungs and brain and life, all simmering away in the pressure cooker known as sarcoidosis and heart failure. And weirdly, they were mad they had to wait.

I’d like to say I responded with grace. I’d like to say I closed my laptop and practiced mindful breathing while sitting in lotus position (which, by the way, is not particularly friendly to lungs that once thought pulmonary hypertension was a fun hobby). But the truth is this: I muttered, I sighed, I said a few chef-standard curse words probably not approved by the American Heart Association, then I reminded myself—I don’t owe anyone content. Not on a schedule they set. Not even if they signed up on Kindle, paid 99 cents a month, and placed this blog next to “The Economist.”

This isn’t a medical blog. It’s not a health site. It’s not even a real schedule. It’s a bunch of personal reflections typed between cardiology appointments, oxygen checks, med alarms, and the occasional spoon of ice cream to remind myself I’m human. I’m a chef who sometimes writes instead of braises. A man who, as of this writing, is still here—fifteen years past my five-year expiration date. If you’re still reading, somewhere between confused and entertained, stick around. If you’re mad that I don’t publish daily, I don’t know what to tell you—life’s got other plans for me sometimes.

So no, I don’t feel guilty for writing on my own terms. And if Amazon takes a cut to beam my scattered thoughts into your Kindle? That’s between you and Jeff Bezos. I’m just over here deciding whether today’s blog post or nap is the right choice. Spoiler: naps win a lot.

But listen, if you love what I do—even when it’s late, or inconsistent, or comes out like that burnt soufflé your favorite contestant cried over on TV—say so. Comment. Subscribe. Throw a little virtual love my way. Because even sarcastic, oxygen-toting chefs need encouragement. And I promise, even if the timing’s unpredictable, I’ll always serve something heartfelt and seasoned just right.

So, what’s your take on this? Comment below or hit subscribe—let’s keep cooking this story together.