Don't Let the Bastards Win

I was supposed to publish something new last week, but I didn't.

This summer has not gone remotely to plan. Summer schedules ate up more of my time than I anticipated, weekly posts dropped to every-other-week, and by last week I was too fried to manage even that.

I've got several things going on right now - I didn't want to shove the first one out half-baked, so it's not quite done.

Next week, though. The first of a new series, I promise.

But if I'm being honest, that's not the only reason I went radio silent.

I've written about patience. I've gone on at length about putting in the work without any proof that it means a damn thing.

And it's a lot easier to write about it than indefinitely living it.

Lately I've caught myself struggling to find that fire-in-the-belly I had when I started this. Wondering if I'm wasting my time and wondering more than once if I should just quit.

So I went back and pulled something I wrote last year. I needed to reread an old story this week, not make a new one.

Updates at the end:

I have a love-hate relationship with any movie that can make me cry.

I love the catharsis of recognition, when something resonates so deeply you feel not alone in this experience of life.

I hate it because I cry ugly. Like, red-nosed, blotchy-faced, glassy-eyed, don’t look at me levels of hideous.

So when I sat down with the Balkan Storm to watch Nonnas, I figured I was in for a sweet little movie with comfort food vibes, maybe even a few cooking tips.

I did not expect to ugly-cry over a recipe.

The film follows Joe Scaravella, a Staten Island guy who loses his mother and grandmother and works through his grief by opening a restaurant staffed entirely by grandmothers, each one cooking what she grew up on.

It’s a wild idea, and it nearly doesn’t work. Joe has no business plan or even a backup plan; all he has is a gut feeling he can't shake and stubbornness that's borderline insane.

Which, you know. Relatable.

Because I’m in the middle of creating something too, something that matters more to me than anything I've done before.

I’ve got no investors or a ‘how-to’ guide, just a voice that won’t shut up, and a Type-A husband who has gently started asking questions about my well-being.

It’s fine, though, really.
Probably.

The hardest part of the film isn't the money running out or the neighbor actively telling people not to come to the restaurant. It's the what if I'm wrong about all of this that creeps in when you're too tired to push back

But there’s always someone like that in your life, isn't there? Someone who’d rather watch you fail than admit you’re doing something they don't have the stones to. Maybe a friend poking holes in your dreams under the guise of concern.

Worst of all, sometimes, it’s you, lying awake at 2 a.m., making a better case against yourself than anyone else ever could.

So Joe keeps going. He shows up at the Times office with a bag of food, no appointment, no reason to think anyone will see him, much less care.

He hears nothing back and figures it’s over. He throws one last party to burn through the inventory before he closes; basically a wake for a dream that had seemingly died.

The review ran a few days later, and the next morning, there was a line out the door.

That was fifteen years ago. Enoteca Maria is still open and run by grandmothers from every corner of the world. Still going strong and feeding people like family, all because someone refused to quit on something he couldn't yet see was already in motion.

And God knows I needed it.

I have no idea how this story ends, but I’ve never worked harder or believed in something this deeply without knowing if it would ever really take off.

This thing has a heartbeat, and I didn't expect it to get this far this fast. So I keep working, keep betting on what this could be, even when it hurts like hell.

As the Balkan Storm reminds me all the time: don’t let the bastards win.

So I don't.

Update:

Well, shit.

A year later, and I still couldn't tell you how this goes. I'm still in the middle of it, still not sure where it's headed, and still working harder than I'd like to remember why I believed in this so hard in the first place.

But the part of Joe's story that matters most to me now is the fact that he'd thrown the wake for his dream. He'd closed the doors and decided it was pointless, and all the while the thing to save it was already heading his way.

I can't see the future either. Maybe something is happening out there, maybe it isn't.

But I'm not ready to plan a wake.

So I keep on working like I have a reason to.

I won't let the bastards win.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.