I’ll never forget the feeling of walking through a dimly lit dining room wearing a chef’s jacket. If the food was good, then the admiration was even better. The whispers of praise as I walked past tables were immeasurable. The pride I felt wearing that jacket was like no other, and I would do it again a million times over.

I’m not sure why certain careers command respect merely through appearances. There are uniforms that seem to say, look at me — I’m doing something exciting. The clothing alone says, “I’ve arrived.” You could be the worst chef this side of the Mississippi and it wouldn’t matter out in public. One glance at that all-white, neatly pressed chef’s jacket and the awe is struck, and the respect is immediate.

Today I wear a very different uniform — usually a pair of jeans and a stained T-shirt, boots worn from every type of wear and tear possible. My skin is leathered and dark, and my hair is bleached from the sun. Now I’m dirty every day from head to toe. Now I landscape.

Neither of my careers was by design, nor was writing a column for The Dispatch. My work has found me through necessity, stubbornness and talents I wasn’t aware I had. I grew up in the landscaping business. My stepfather, Alan, was a talented and unique landscaper. He taught me so much, though it wasn’t unveiled until later in life.

The stories I grew up hearing were of my biological father. He was a chef and restaurateur. From what I was told, he was quite the cook — just a bit ahead of his time. I didn’t learn to cook from him; he passed away when I was young. But I quickly found professional kitchens and spent years within them, chasing a ghost.

So where is the rub in my story? What is the issue waiting to be shared? Why do I ponder careers, their styles of dress and the pride that comes with certain jobs? Shouldn’t we be proud of our work based on our ethic alone?

The short answer is yes. But not for me — not when I think that wearing that chef’s jacket mattered more than it should. My shame is the rub, and it deceived me the other night.

At an event recently held at MUW, renowned author, television host and food ambassador John T. Edge came to talk about his recent memoir. Afterwards, he took to the lobby to sign copies of his book. As my turn approached, I hesitated and thought about what to say.
Given my history of blunders with famous authors, Shannon, well-meaning as always, spoke up and said, “Clay is a chef and appeared on TV.”

Before Mr. Edge could finish his response, I interrupted and said, “Yeah, but now I landscape.” I quickly began to downplay my career and make it about as exciting as warm milk.

Later I was ashamed. Where was my pride? Why did I feel that landscaping was inferior to cooking? And why did I allow myself to become lost in a sea of my own ego?

If I was so embarrassed to be known as a landscaper in front of John T., then why did I even mention it in the first place?

I guess by knowing that I hadn’t cooked in a professional kitchen in over a decade, I didn’t feel as if I could call myself a chef. I also felt he wasn’t impressed, so what did it matter anyway? A real answer seemed pertinent. But how real was I if I wasn’t proud of what I do?

Shame on me. I’m typically very proud of what I’ve managed to accomplish. Jacket or no jacket, shovel or knife, I’ve always tried my best. I think when we stop doing something for ourselves and begin to do it for others, we’re pandering. Our pride should come naturally — not by design. Doing work for praise is easy and rewarding. But doing work for ourselves cultivates pride.

For example, when I write this column, my worry never subsides. I walk a tightrope of saying the right thing. It’s easy to tell you what you want to hear, and it’s scary to think you might not like it. But it’s imperative I do it for myself and never for the praise.

My back aches a lot these days. My hands are callused, and my thoughts are too. I’m dirty — a lot. And my T-shirts don’t have much allure. But I’m happy and proud because I make the world a little better every day. Now I grow as I make things grow, and my hard work is for myself.

I’ve decided to replace my shame with gratitude, because I’ve been rewarded a million times over. Whatever I’ve done, it must have been good — because then I was a chef, and now I landscape.

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].

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