Yesterday I sent out emails to my contact list (if you’d like to be included, please let me know) about something I’m calling The French Connection. For nine nights in August, people can hire Fabrice and me to come cook a sublime three- or four-course French inspired dinner in their home. While still in the planning phases, dishes include arugula salad with roasted figs, prosciutto, Gorgonzola, and lemon olive oil; rosemary roasted lamp chops with creamy mushroom risotto; locally grown berries with sabayon; and tarte tatin with crème fraîche.

As soon as I hit send, I expected only to wait a few minutes until the requests came pouring in. I imagined my phone ringing off the hook with people vying for the coveted dates. I patiently watched my inbox, ready for the sudden flood of emails. The clock in my office ticked off the seconds as I held my breath, ready for the flurry of activity. One hour passed. Then two. Then several more. And still nothing. By the end of the day, I was despondent, disappointed, and confused. Were people really not interested in our culinary prowess? Was the $50 per person price too high? Did the menu not sound appetizing enough?

That afternoon, I expected another call – one from a local culinary store. I contacted them about a month ago, hoping to teach classes in their fancy kitchen in the Pearl district. I waited the three-hour window when the person said they would call, not daring to leave the house to take out the recycling or check the mail. But the three hours passed without incident.

Still feeling a burst of energy, I called several other contacts and resources only getting voice mail. And still my phone didn’t ring.

I flopped down on my bed, staring out the window, waylaid by a waive of apathy. I didn’t want to cook, didn’t want to do anymore work, and didn’t want to go for a much needed walk. I didn’t really want to lie there on my bed either, but couldn’t summon up enough energy to lift myself up and deposit my body somewhere else.

Shrouded in a daze, I heard a noise – the phone. I seriously questioned if I had enough energy to get up and go into the next room to answer it. My curiosity got the best of me, and my best friend’s voice floated through the line and asked what I was doing. “Nothing,” I replied. “Simply nothing.” “I’m so jealous,” she said. “I wish I could have enough time do just do nothing. I hope you appreciate it.” She’s a mother of a two year old and a month away from a second child.

And just like that, the cloud of apathy vanished. It simply took another point of view, one on the grass-is-always-greener side of the fence, to shake me from my dream-like state. She was right.

Starting my own business is not always a bed of sweetly perfumed red roses. There are obstacles, thorns, and low points to overcome. I keep reminding myself that I chose this path, and there will be times when it gets bumpy. But as long as I stick with it and pursue my passion, the rest will fall into place.

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