first step
by laurey masterton

When I look at my work life now, it is incredible to think I have been at this cooking thing for the past 15 years. Just the other night I had dinner with my friend EA, in whose home I lived when I first made food for sale. As a matter of fact, it was a birthday dinner I cooked for her one July that prompted another friend to say, “Hey, you’re good! Come see me tomorrow and I’ll give you a book about someone who started her own restaurant. I think YOU could do that.”

The next day I visited her, as requested. “Here you go,” she said, “Here’s the Cafe Beaujolais Cookbook. You remind me of her. See what you think.”She had a point. I DID recognize things about Margaret Fox in myself. Her first paying food “gig” was selling Congo Bars, a moist blonde brownie, to a Mendocino art movie house. From there things took off for her and, at the point of time when she wrote her book, she had a small but very successful restaurant.I promptly made a batch of her Congo Bars. Almost before they were cooled I scrambled them down to my friend’s store. I was in business! This was it. I stepped into her store.

“Yuck!” my friend said. “These things are underdone. I don’t like them. Yuck.” After that reaction I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had hoped she’d SELL them. I slunk home, devastated! I was a business failure! Before I even started! Now what would I do? Where would I go?

EA tried to put things into some sort of perspective for me. “They’re just cookies, Laurey Lou. I love ‘em. YOU love ‘em. Someone else will, love ‘em too. Everybody doesn’t always love the same thing. But that’s okay too. It’s only cookies.”

Soothing as her words were, I stood on the stairs in my living room in EA’s house and wept.I spent the rest of the summer instructing Outward Bound courses, facilitating my students’ life-changing experiences. “You can do this!” I coaxed. “Think about how you would feel if you just trusted and stepped up onto that rock. Don’t think about the whole cliff. Just take the first step.”

At night, sitting with my group around a single pot of macaroni and cheese, I entertained with stories of elegant meals I had eaten in New York City when I had worked in the theatre during a short-lived visit to the fast lane.“Oh, and let me tell you about the silky, buttery lemon sauce underneath the lobster I ate at Montrachet,” I taunted. “The Feuillete of Wild Mushrooms at Aureole. Tapas at The Ballroom.”I couldn’t stop thinking about food. About making it. I had to figure it out.

My parents had founded Blueberry Hill, a small Inn in Vermont, in the late 40s. My mother, a secretary, realized (out of necessity) that she could cook. The farmhouse that had come with the land my father had purchased to build a ski area became my mother’s testing and, ultimately, her proving ground. I had always assumed I’d grow up to run Blueberry Hill. But the early death of my parents when I was twelve meant that my childhood home was no longer an option for me.

Congo bars or no Congo bars, I was not ready to give up.One time, a month or so later, I shared space on an airplane with a fellow who asked me, “Tell me about the most incredible experience you’ve ever had.” I can’t remember what story I told, but I vividly remember the dramatic difference his story made to me. He described a weekend long “fire-walking” workshop. “It helped me focus,” he said. “Got me out of my rut. Put me on a new path. It was scary, and hard, but wow—those steps changed my life.”

I phoned the fire-walk office from the airport, the minute we landed. “We’re having a retreat in next month,” the receptionist said. “We’ll save you a space.”

The room thundered, pulsed, vibrated with energy as some 600 of us gathered to experience the fire-walk. Fortunately I had not read nor heard anything about this kind of weekend except for my friend Kent’s stories.“Prepare to do WHATEVER it is that you want to do!” the fire-walk guy boomed. “WhatEVER it is!”

He was good, smooth, strong. A trustable teacher, he guided us through the evening, getting us ready, helping us convince ourselves that yes, we could walk on glowing coals. And that we could make those (simple!) steps stand as a reminder that we were able, really able, if we worked at it, to do anything at all.

“Know what you want,” he urged. “Walk through that fire and say toyourself, ‘if I can walk on these hot coals I can....’”

“If I can walk on these hot coals,” I whispered to myself, “I can own my own restaurant, even if it is NOT Blueberry Hill. I can do this. It’s all in the first step.”

I walked.

When I came back to Asheville I was full of myself! Pumped up! I can do ANYTHING!

I went to the bank. Introduced myself. “Hi, my name is LaureyMasterton and I am here to open a restaurant!” I glowed, proud and confident.

“Hello Miss Masterton. I am your banker and I am here to talk you out of it.”

Talk me out of it? But I had just walked across hot coals! I could do anything! Couldn’t she see?

“The failure rate for new businesses is 95%. For restaurants, the failure rate is 98%. We are not going to loan you money.” (She was too polite to point out that I had no savings, no experience, no schooling, nothing.)

“Anyway,” my older sister soothed, trying to find something positive from my jarred hopes. “Restaurants are HARD work! You should just start a catering company! Go join some woman’s group and donate a party. If you’re good, they’ll come back for more.”
So with the fire under my feet I put on a bright white shirt, cobbled together a brochure, and took myself to a women’s business meeting.

“Hello everybody,” I said, after stepping onto the stage. “My name is Laurey Masterton. I just moved to Asheville and I own a new catering company. Here’s my brochure. Please do call me if I can cook for you.”

Amazingly enough, one woman called. I had taken my first step.

Laurey Masterton is the youngest daughter of Elsie and John Masterton, founders of Bluebery Hill Inn in Vermont and authors of The Blueberry Hill cookbooks. Laurey is also the Proprietor of Laurey’s Catering and Gourmet to Go in Asheville where she tends the stoves, greets the guests, and writes a thing or two every so often. laureysyum.com