On Work Journal Entry #3

Food for Thought. Wine for Wonder.

On Work

Work has never been something I chose.
It’s something that chose me early… and never let go.

I grew up in South Minneapolis, in a home where we always felt like we had enough—but I knew, even as a kid, that it was tight. There were coupons on the counter, careful decisions at the grocery store, not a lot of trips, not a lot of eating out. But there was love, and there was pride, and there was this quiet understanding that if you wanted something—you worked for it.

So I did.

Babysitting. Walking neighbors’ dogs.
Then the moment I was old enough—I got a real job.

And I loved it.

I loved making my own money. I loved the independence of it. The feeling that I could take care of myself, even in small ways. That sense of control… of earning… it stuck.

My first restaurant job was in high school at Bicko’s in Edina, serving Green Mill pizza. That’s where it clicked. That moment when I realized—you can make real money serving people. And not just money… connection. Energy. Gratitude.

Hospitality came naturally to me because I had already been taught it—by my mom, by my grandma. Grace. Awareness. Taking care of people before they even asked.

From there, it never stopped.

At 16, getting my license felt like freedom. I passed my test, bought a used Volkswagen, and the world opened up.
After high school, I moved out.

Work wasn’t something I balanced with life.
Work was life.

Even before my first day of culinary school, I was out all night watching Prince perform, fell asleep sitting up on my cousin’s couch… and still made it to class on time.

That’s just how I’ve always been.

Work ethic didn’t just come from necessity—it came from sport too.
Tennis. Softball.

You had to put in the time. The sweat. The repetition.

And in the winter, when those sports paused, I even signed up for cross country skiing—despite hating the cold and honestly hating running when there wasn’t snow. But it filled something. Time. Energy. Space between school, sports, and my jobs.

I always needed to be moving. Working. Pushing.

Because when you’re on a team, you learn something powerful—
you show up for each other. You trust each other. You don’t quit.

That stayed with me.

And maybe that’s the gift and the flaw of it all—
I expect that same level of commitment everywhere.

From myself. From others.

What is calling in sick?
What is slowing down?

I’ve worked through things I probably shouldn’t have—like the months I lived with kidney failure before we even knew what was wrong. Pain that made me collapse, dry heave, pass out… and still I went to school, still I worked.

Because stopping never felt like an option.

Even in my hardest seasons, I worked.

Through nights where I should have been sleeping, I was placing orders, answering messages, running numbers. My friends watched me fall asleep with my phone in my hand, laptop still open. Customers texting me at 2, 3, 4 in the morning—and I answered.

Because that’s who I am.

There was a time at Bellanotte—a nightclub job I never thought I’d ever survive—where 11 a.m. to 4 a.m. was normal. And somehow, I did it. Thrived in it even. That job taught me about people in a way nothing else could. The full spectrum of this industry—from bottle service to bathroom attendants, from celebrities to regulars just trying to feel something for a night.

It taught me that work… real work… is about commitment to something bigger than yourself.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something:

If I could work that hard for someone else…
what would it look like when I finally did it for myself?

That answer became Molly’s.

Somewhere along the way, work stopped being just what I did…
and became who I am.

And that comes with a cost.

I’ve missed things.
Moments that don’t come back.
Holidays, weekends, cabin days, trips… time that most people build their lives around.

I built mine around work.

And relationships—whether friendships, love, or even family—don’t always understand that. Or maybe they do… but it doesn’t make it easier.

Who wants to be with someone who works every holiday?
Who is gone nights, weekends… always “on”?
Who answers calls at 2 a.m. and shows up the next day like nothing happened?

That life doesn’t fit neatly into what most people want.

And I get that.

There are moments where I’ve wondered if the cost has been too high.
If I chose work over connection too many times.

But the truth is… I don’t know how else to be.

This isn’t something I turn on and off.
It’s something that lives inside of me.

No regrets—just awareness.
Just learning how to be better, even now.

Looking through pictures sometimes… it hits.

Motorcycle rides. Cabin days. Traveling. Dining out. Bowling.
Just being us—the version of us that fell in love before Molly’s.

I know that’s been hard on us. On our relationship. On our mental and physical well-being.

It’s harder now to find time to just sit, to cuddle, to talk, to even really see each other.
We argue more—mostly from stress, from exhaustion. And anyone who owns a business understands that weight.

But it’s also why I love him so much.

Brad sees me.

He loves the goofy side, the serious side… just me.

That love might look different now. It might feel different.
But that’s how I know it’s real.

And if I’m being honest… this is where the word regret quietly shows up.

Not in the big picture.
Not in what I’ve built.

But in the moments.

Working up until my wedding weekend—nonstop.
Not really feeling like a bride. Not feeling beautiful. Just… exhausted.

Working right up until vacations—
closing the restaurant, packing last minute, barely sleeping before a 4 a.m. Uber.

Working up until anything we try to do.

And because of that… I don’t always get to feel it.

The fun. The excitement. The anticipation.
The presence of being in those moments.

Instead, I’m tired.
Stressed about what just happened, what’s next, or what I might be forgetting.

And that has taken a real toll on me mentally.

And maybe the hardest part of all of this…
is family.

Becoming an aunt should have been one of the most present, joyful chapters of my life.

My nephew, Gabriel.

After everything my sister went through to become a mother… after all the waiting, the heartbreak, the hope—he arrived. And at the same time, in a completely different way, I became a parent too.

To Molly’s.

We both gave birth to something that changed our lives forever.

But while she was learning lullabies and first steps…
I was learning staffing, systems, survival.

And those two worlds don’t align very well.

Schedules don’t match.
Miles feel longer than they are.
Time slips away faster than I ever thought it could.

And the truth that sits in my chest more often than I’d like to admit is this—

Gabriel doesn’t really know his Aunt Molly.

Not the way he should.

And that hurts.

It’s the kind of quiet hurt that doesn’t show up during service, or in the middle of a packed dining room, or while I’m speaking at a wine dinner. It waits. It finds me later. In the stillness. In the drive home. In the moments when everything finally slows down.

It makes me question things.

Why am I like this?
Why does work pull me so strongly, even when it costs me something this meaningful?

Because most people wouldn’t choose this.

They’d choose the cabin. The trip. The birthday party. The extra day off.

And sometimes I wonder if the people I love will ever fully understand… or forgive that.

For that, my heart feels heavy.

But I also know this—

The work I’m doing now… it’s not just for today.

It’s for something bigger.
A future that I’m building piece by piece, hour by hour, sacrifice by sacrifice.

Every long night.
Every sore back.
Every difficult guest.
Every mile driven.
Every moment I chose to stay when it would have been easier to leave.

It all adds up to something.

To Molly’s.

To a place where people gather, celebrate, connect.
To a space where intention matters—where the wine comes from real families, where the food is sourced with care, where even the smallest details are thought through… because I care.

Deeply.

If you’ve ever sat at one of my tables…
come to a wine dinner…
shared a meal, a glass, a moment—

then you’ve seen me.

Maybe not in the way my family wishes they could more often…
but in the way I know how to give.

Fully. Honestly. With everything I have.

This is who I am.
Still learning. Still questioning. Still growing.

Working… not just to build a restaurant—
but to build a life that, one day, holds all of it.

With grace, gratitude… and always a little more to give.

Chef Molly Krinhop