A twelve-year-old with a push mower and six neighbors who needed their yards cut — that’s as close to a business plan as I’ve ever had.
My father died when I was six. My mother was a public school art teacher. The math was simple: if any money was going to be in my pocket, I was going to be the one to put it there. So, I mowed yards. Three years later, at fifteen, I landed my first real job as a radio station disc jockey, spinning records and falling completely in love with music in the process. They gave me the shifts nobody else wanted: Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s night. Twelve hours each. Two years straight.
I thought I’d won the lottery.
Spring breaks, summer vacations, Christmas holidays—while my friends were at the lake or sleeping until noon, I was clocked in. And I want to be careful here, because this isn’t a column about how hard I work. My friends have been making jokes about that for thirty years, and I’ve earned every one of them. This is a column about something different. This is about the word itself.
Work.
Say it out loud and watch people’s faces. It hits people the same way “root canal” does, except a root canal has a defined end point and nobody expects you to be grateful for it. Like something to be survived. A condition to be managed rather than a life to be lived. People say find something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life, and they say it with a wink, because they assume it’s the kind of thing that sounds good on a coffee mug and doesn’t actually happen to real people.
For me, it happened. And I’ve never really known how to talk about it.
Started in restaurants at nineteen. Been in them ever since—I’ve made more mistakes than I can count, some concepts I probably should have attempted, and more good nights than I deserve. Somewhere along the way the radio station became a dining room, the dining room became a career, and the career became something I genuinely cannot separate from the rest of my life. Not because I have no boundaries. Because I don’t want any.
The line between work and not-work dissolved a long time ago.
Right now, I’m in Tuscany. Hosting groups through my travel business, Yonderlust Travel. Every morning I walk to the same bakery in Tavarnelle at eight o’clock, stop by the ATM for tip cash, pull up email on my phone, and wait. Every restaurant back home closes at a different hour. The reports come in at different times—nine, ten, eleven at night Mississippi time, which is the middle of the night here—and I am genuinely, embarrassingly eager for each one. Did they hit the budget? How was the bar? What did the kitchen do? When the groups are in Florence or Siena with their guides and I have a few free hours, I find a hotel lobby with decent Wi-Fi and get to it. After dinner at the villa. Early in the morning before the group is up. Forty hours a week, easy. From Tuscany. While running a travel tour.
My friends think this is a problem worth discussing. I think it’s Tuesday.
But here’s the thing I keep circling back to: I don’t have a better word for any of it. Work keeps popping up, and every time it does, I feel like it doesn’t fit—at least not the way most people mean it. So, I’ve been trying to find the right one. Craft? Too precious. Calling? Closer, but it sounds like I’m about to pass a collection plate. Engagement? A consultant wrote that word. Purpose? Getting warmer. Obsession?
Probably.
Maybe the problem isn’t the word. Maybe the problem is the face people make when they hear it.
When my son was fourteen, he came to me and asked what he should do with his life. I told him you’ll figure it out, son—whatever it is, find the thing that you love to do, see if you can get paid for it, and do that. And then something came out of my mouth I hadn’t planned, hadn’t even thought before. I said, “Son, in all the years I have been in the restaurant business, I have never once woken up in the morning and told myself, oh damn, I’ve got to go to work.”
Not once. Not in forty-five years.
As the words were coming out, I realized they were true. I think we were both surprised. That’s what I wished for him—not a profession, not a salary, not a title. Just that. He ended up in the restaurant business, not because I pushed him toward it but because he felt the pull on his own. CIA-trained, worked in Florence and New York and Chicago and New Orleans, and soon he’ll be coming home to Mississippi. There are things a father hopes for his son that he never says out loud, because saying them feels like tempting fate. That one came true. So far, he’s doing great. Better than great.
Once the kids were out of the house, something shifted. Any spare moment that used to go toward a movie or a television show now goes toward a business podcast, a marketing website, a report from one of the concepts. From the time I wake up until the time I go to bed, I’m engaged. Jill has a different word for it. She has used this word consistently for thirty-three years, with remarkable accuracy and zero signs of fatigue, which, if you think about it, is its own kind of work ethic.
People tell me all the time: I don’t know how you do everything you do. The honest answer is: I don’t do it alone. Not by a long shot. The team around me these days—in the restaurants, in travel, in food products, in publishing—I don’t deserve them, honestly. Jarred, Maria, Chad, Nevil, Jennifer, Simeon, Brittany, and a few hundred others—people who show up, who care, who make the whole thing run while I’m chasing down ATM cash in a Tuscan hill town so I have tips for servers and staff ready by nine AM. You surround yourself with people like that, and the word work starts to feel less like a complaint and more like a privilege.
Which, I think, is where I’ve landed. Not on a better word—I’ve tried, and I’m giving up—but on a better understanding of the one we’ve got. Work isn’t the problem. Doing something you’d rather not be doing, every day, indefinitely—that’s the problem. The word just took the blame.
Across everything I do—the restaurants, the travel, the books, the columns, the food products, the television—I have complete creative control. Complete ownership. That’s not a small thing, and I don’t take it lightly. Lord knows I’ve gotten it wrong enough times to understand what a gift it is. Most people spend entire careers executing someone else’s vision, answering to someone else’s taste, building something that will never fully belong to them. Through some combination of stubbornness, luck, and genuinely not knowing any better, I never had to do that. Every concept, every menu, every column, every tour itinerary—mine to get right or wrong, mine to be proud of or fix. That kind of freedom doesn’t make the work easier. It makes it mean something.
Maybe that’s the better word. Not work. Not craft or calling or purpose.
Mine.
Twelve years old, I pushed a mower across six neighbors’ yards and kept every dollar. The ownership started there. It never really stopped.
Onward.
Denver Omelet Quiche
Serve 6 to 8
Preheat oven to 375° F
1 recipe pie dough
1 9-inch deep pie dish
2 tablespoons light olive oil or canola oil
12 ounces good quality ham, cut in 1/2-inch cubes, about 2 cups
1 cup yellow onion, medium dice
3/4 cup green bell pepper, medium dice
3/4 cup red bell pepper, medium dice
2 teaspoons garlic, minced
11/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1 teaspoon fresh ground black pepper
1 teaspoon Creole seasoning
9 large eggs
3/4 cup heavy whipping cream
8 ounces white Cheddar cheese, shredded, about 2 cups
Remove the prepared pie dough from the refrigerator. Lightly flour a clean working surface and place the dough in the center of the floured surface. Lightly dust the top of the dough as well. Begin in the center of the dough and roll upwards towards 12 o’clock, then downwards towards six o’clock. Rotate the dough 90 degrees and repeat the process. Apply more flour as needed to prevent the dough from sticking to the surface or the rolling pin. As your dough begins to resemble a circle, use the rolling pin to define the shape. Roll the dough into a 16-inch circle. Use the rolling pin to transfer the dough to your pie dish. Press the dough firmly on the bottom and up the sides of the pie dish. Using your fingers, crimp the dough along the top of the sides and trim off any excess dough. Chill in the refrigerator while making the filling.
Place half of the oil in a large skillet over high heat. Heat until just about smoking and add the ham to the pan. Do not stir immediately, allow the ham to sear for two to three minutes. Stir and cook two more minutes, until the ham has a good color. Use a slotted spoon to remove the ham from the pan and lower the temperature to medium heat. Add the remaining oil to the pan and stir in the onions, and red and green bell pepper. Cook for three to four minutes or until the onions become translucent. Stir in the garlic, salt, pepper, and Creole seasoning and cook one more minute. Remove the vegetables from the heat.
Meanwhile in a large mixing bowl, whisk together the eggs and whipping cream. Stir in the ham, vegetables, and Cheddar cheese. Remove the chilled pie crust from the refrigerator and pour the filling into the crust. Place on a sided baking sheet and place in the center of the oven. Bake for 40 minutes then remove the quiche from the oven. Using aluminum foil, tent the sides of the crust and return the quiche to the oven for and additional 10 to 15 minutes. The center will jiggle just slightly when the edges is tapped when done.
Remove from the oven and allow the quiche to cool for 20 minutes before serving.
Classic Pie Dough
Every great pie starts with a great crust. And I’m convinced the best crusts are made with a combination of butter and lard. Butter gives you rich, satisfying flavor and flaky layers, while lard makes the crust tender and almost creamy. It’s the same approach generations of Southern cooks have relied on, and it’s the one that works best for me.
The combination of butter and lard is what makes this crust special. Butter adds flavor, while lard brings tenderness. It’s a throwback to the way pie crusts were made before Crisco became a household staple.
And if you’re going to go through the trouble of making a homemade pot pie, you might as well do it right.
It’s important to keep everything cold. When the butter and lard stay cold until they hit the heat of the oven, that’s what gives you the perfect texture—flaky, tender, and golden. It’s worth taking the time to make this pie dough from scratch. It makes all the difference.
Makes enough for two 9-inch pie crusts (top and bottom)
Ingredients
2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, chilled
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
1 tablespoon granulated sugar (optional, but it adds a subtle sweetness)
1/2 cup unsalted butter (1 stick), very cold, cut into 1/2-inch cubes
1/2 cup lard, very cold, cut into small pieces
1/2 cup ice water, plus more if needed
Instructions
Combine the flour, salt, and sugar (if using) in a large mixing bowl. Chill the bowl and flour mixture in the refrigerator for 30 minutes before proceeding.
Add the cold butter and lard to the flour mixture. Using a pastry cutter, fork, or your fingertips, cut the fats into the flour until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs with some pieces the size of small peas. Work quickly to keep the fats from warming.
Slowly drizzle the ice water into the flour mixture, starting with about 1/4 cup and mixing gently with a fork. Add more water, a tablespoon at a time, until the dough just begins to come together. It should be moist but not sticky.
Turn the dough out onto a lightly floured surface and knead it just enough to bring it into a ball. Divide the dough into two equal portions, shape each into a disc, and wrap tightly in plastic wrap.
Refrigerate for at least one hour, preferably overnight. The longer it chills, the easier it will be to work with.
When ready to use, roll the dough out on a floured surface to about 1/8-inch thickness. Proceed with your pie recipe.
(Robert St. John is a chef, restauranteur and published cookbook author who lives in Hattiesburg, Miss.)
