When I first took over The Goochland Restaurant, there was one important thing I needed to set straight for the record.

I could not cook an egg.

Not a little shaky on timing.  Not occasionally guessing wrong.  I mean, fully, completely unprepared for anything involving heat, pans, or anything that sizzled.

I dont even like eggs, which feels like important context in hindsight, especially since the GR is best known for its all-day breakfast.  The reason you can order lunch at 7 a.m. is that I absolutely do not like breakfast food.

That is just who I am.

Now I do enjoy a good egg white omelet from time to time, which is now on the menu because, as it turns out, other people like egg whites too, not just me.

Back then, though, if eggs had feelings, they would have asked me for protection from me.

And yet…I had just taken over a restaurant.

I had enthusiasm.  I had love for the team, the community, and the place.  I had hope.

What I did not have was any business being behind a grill.

Thankfully, I had cooks.

Then one day…

I didn’t.

Not late.

Not sick.
Just…gone.

Suddenly, I was standing in a restaurant full of food with no one who actually knew how to turn it into meals.

At first, I tried to push through anyway.  I figure if I cared enough, I would somehow figure it out.  That is a charming belief, but not a very practical one when people are ordering breakfast.

So I did what felt like a perfectly reasonable solution at the time.

I went and sat on the blue bench outside Food Lion.
For two hours, I made eye contact with every single person who walked by.

“Do you know how to cook?”

“…Would you be interested in a cook position?”

I tried to sound friendly.

I tried to sound professional.

But I’m pretty sure I looked like a woman powered entirely by hope and mild panic.

Most people kept walking.
Some smiled politely.
Others avoided eye contact as if I had just asked them to help move a couch up three flights of stairs with no elevator and no emotional support.
After two hours…

I gave up.

I drove back to the restaurant, sat down at the community table…
and cried.

Not because I was weak.

Because I cared.
I cared about the team.
I cared about the people who came in to eat.
I cared about the place I had taken responsibility for.
And in that moment, all of that love and responsibility felt very heavy.

After I had my moment, something shifted.

I realized I’d been waiting for someone to walk through the door and save the day.

A cook.
Someone with experience.
Someone who already knew what they were doing.
Then it hit me.

This was one of those self-rescuing princess situations.

Apparently…
I was the princess.

Which was unfortunate, because I still couldn’t cook an egg.

So I pulled out the menu.

And I decided that if I couldn’t find someone to cook it…
I was going to learn to cook it myself.
The next chapter of my life can best be described as “breakfast with consequences.”

If you remember those early days of me cooking, you may remember that your eggs basically identified as whatever you ordered.

“Over easy” was less of a cooking method and more of an aspiration.
Sometimes the waitress, who had significantly more restaurant experience than I did, would refuse even to take the plate out.

She was trying to protect both the customer and my dignity.

On the days she couldn’t stop me, I would carry the plate out myself with all the confidence I could emotionally gather.

I’d set it down and tell the starving customer, “It’s the best I could do.”

Then I’d offer to comp the meal while gently reminding them that it would all eventually turn into poop anyway.

Shockingly, this was not considered standard restaurant service.

People graciously ate the food anyway.

And somehow…
they kept coming back.

One day, someone ordered a chef salad with hard-boiled eggs.

I gave him scrambled eggs because, in my mind, eggs were eggs, and I truly believed I had solved the problem.

He ate it.

Then,he very firmly informed me that I should never do that again.

Fair enough.

I wasn’t fast.
Ticket times were…aspirational.
There were burned things.
Overcooked things.

A few things that probably still qualify as unsolved mysteries.
There were mornings when I questioned every life choice that had led me to standing over a flat top, arguing with breakfast.

But there was also progress.

One dish at a time.
One mistake at a time.
One small victory at a time.
Slowly, I learned the menu.
One day, I realized I wasn’t pretending to be the cook anymore.  I actually could cook. (The GR menu)

And somewhere along the way, I realized something important.

You do not have to start out knowing everything.
You just have to care enough to keep going when you don’t.

Today, I’m happy to report that I can cook eggs much better than when I first took over The Goochland Restaurant.

Not perfect every time.
But solid.
Confident.

And no longer a threat to the public breakfast.

More importantly, I learned that sometimes the person you’re waiting on to save the day…

is you.

Turns out the self-rescuing princess eventually learned to cook breakfast.

And I’d call that a pretty good upgrade from where I  started.