“We didn’t know what we were getting into.”

If I had a nickel for every time Bob and I uttered that expression, I wouldn’t be shuffling funds from all the different farm accounts to pay this guy to install the new hood and fire suppression system so that we could finally get the cafe’s beer and wine license. 

That’s not fair.  If I had a nickel for every time Bob and I uttered that expression, we’d probably have used them to start up more ventures, which would have us scrambling for more nickels, which would require more uttering of the aforementioned refrain from our marriage:

We didn’t know what we were getting into.

There should have been a disclaimer in the wedding vows:  

Robert, do you take Shannon to be your lawfully wedded wife?

Do you acknowledge that you don’t know what you’re getting into?

Shannon, do you take Robert to be your lawfully wedded husband?

Do you acknowledge that you don’t know what you’re getting into?

This entrepreneurial life requires one fundamental attribute: an ability to be comfortable in uncertainty.  

Since stepping to the helm at Sap Bush Hollow, I’ve developed a sense of pride as I’ve grown into this quality.  I calculate our risks as carefully as I can, and I’ve developed some cash flow strategies to buffer the farm from disaster.  But after that, I blunder forward into the unknown:  new buildings, new enterprises, new employees.  And each time, Bob shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders, then plunges into the cold deep with me.  

And the first second we come up for air, we sputter, and then we laugh.

We didn’t know what we were getting into.  

I calculated the costs of the license, the new insurance, the change in payroll status for our employees, the beer and the wine, even the increase in electricity usage for extended nighttime hours.  I calculated break-even figures, and tested what our potential traffic could be.  But we didn’t know that applying for a beer and wine license would require the favor of politicians, and induce the ire of any bureaucrat or inspectors said politicians had to cajole into simply doing their jobs.  

And none of that ire figured into the initial calculations.  

I’m okay with that.  It makes for good story telling at the espresso bar.  

But two days before we process turkeys on the farm, this latest requirement, to tear out the 3 year-old ventilation system and replace it with another one, results in Bob and I having to strip the kitchen and prepare for the workers.  One day before we process turkeys, a new hole appears in the roof over my cooktop.  A mammoth vent fan is installed on top of it, but the tear in the roof remains.  

And on the day we process turkeys, two days before the cafe is scheduled to re-open, no one shows up to work.  There’s a snowstorm on the horizon, and I’m wondering if we hired the wrong workers in haste.  

And that’s when I lose my shit.

I can laugh about the sudden requirements to install new risers on the stairs behind the building that have nothing to do with the cafe, or the fact that the liquor authority requires me to lock certain exits at all times, and the building inspector requires me to unlock them and label them for the public.  I can laugh at the fact that my application for a beer and wine license in a cafe spirals into a surprise fire inspection from the town, which requires me to throw out functioning smoke detectors in different units on the opposite side of the building, and replace them with new ones.  

But there is a hole over my cooktop.  And it’s partially blocked by this behemoth hunk of stainless steel.  And my kitchen is covered in grit and dirt, and then I learn this:

If I want the fan in the vent to turn on, it costs extra.

If I want there to be lights inside this stainless cave where I now have to stand and cook, it costs extra.

If I want someone to close up the torn hole in my roof, it costs extra.

And no one is available to fix these issues until next week. 

I stand in the farm kitchen after weighing and bagging all the turkeys and start to cry.

For so many parts of this business, I’ve learned to laugh.  It’s only money.  I have my family.  I have this land.  I have this food.  The rest is only money.

But this is my kitchen.  And suddenly, I have none of my perspective left.  

I don’t know why.  It’s irrational.  After all, this is only money.  I can change the menu for Saturday.  There are people who will fix this. …Hopefully before the rain and snow comes in and destroys the $2400 worth of new insulation we had to blow in six weeks ago for this license. 

But my anxiety swells.  And I hate all of it.  This simple beer and wine licensing endeavor has now reached into what I suddenly understand is the soul and heartbeat of this family business:

That kitchen.  

My knives are torn from the wall mount.  My recipe folders are lost.  My cooktop is cracked.  Dust and dirt cover everything.  

At this rate, I won’t be able to unlock the doors on Saturday and make breakfast for my neighbors the way I want to.

That shouldn’t be a big deal.  

Mom recognizes that it is.  She steps away from washing the lunch dishes and catches me in a hug just as I double over.  Saoirse and Ula catch me on the sides, and all three of them let my tears fall while they hold me up.  

I gather my sobs into enough rage to get the contractor on the phone and scare him into reporting by 6 am Friday morning.  At four in the afternoon on Friday, the entire Sap Bush Crew is standing in the cafe, staring at the tables and counters heaped with detritus.  The kids crank up the music and everyone grabs brooms and cleaning cloths.  While they restore the front of the house, Bob and I go back to our kitchen.  I stand in the place where I cook and scrub and try to re-configure where to temporarily relocate each knife, monkey bowl, spoon, and whisk so that I will have work flow.  Bob rolls in the shelving and gets to work closing up holes and repairing damage.  He finds a window fan in the basement and bungees it up into the mouth of the empty hood, jury-rigging a ventilation system so that I can cook.  

But as I stand at my cooktop, I am squinting.  This new vent is so enormous, it has blocked all the light, casting my entire work station in shadow.  Bob takes the LED ring light we use for capturing videos, unscrews it from the tripod and wires that into the hood, sending a shower of light over my griddle and cooktop.  My work station is festooned with bungees and extension cords.  We call it good enough.  

And on Saturday morning, we open.  Jokes about the hole in the roof, the bungees and the extension cords abound.  And before I know it, I’m standing at the griddle, making home fries and flipping eggs for my neighbors.  Janiva Magness is belting Eat The Lunch You Brought through the cafe speakers, and I’m dancing as I cook.   Bob bops along, prepping the plates and sliding them across to me.  We see the plates go out full, and the plates come back empty, and we hear laughter and chatter from out front.  My heart is once more full of joy.  We still have to get the roof closed up.  We still need to come up with the funds to finish the project.  We’re still under a timeline from the state to meet all the different requirements, or all the work we’ve done toward the license thus far will be discarded.  But none of it matters any more.  We’re cooking breakfast for people we care about.

And it’s Mother Theresa’s  words that come to mind:

The fruit of silence is prayer,

The fruit of prayer is faith,

The fruit of faith is love,

The fruit of love is service,

And the fruit of service is peace.

I see those bungees, that jury-rigging and that fan shoved up inside that hole and I can’t help thinking about love, and how much I am loved by the man washing dishes.  There were a lot of things we forgot to include in our wedding vows.  We don’t know what we’re getting into was among them.  But there was one promise that we made to each other:

Robert, will you encourage Shannon’s creativity and nurture her spirit?

“I will,” he said.

Shannon, will you encourage Robert’s creativity and nurture his spirit?

“I will.”

Creativity, love, and salvaged spirits dangle down from that gaping hood vent in the form of bungees and extension cords.  But there is faith, too.  Faith that this is worth it.  Faith that we can keep going forward.  Faith that this tiny place where people may gather and be fed is our service to this community.

And the fruit of service is peace.