There are jobs that sound hard.
And then there are jobs that require you to lift propane tanks before breakfast and troubleshoot broken equipment while covered in flour.

Being a sourdough bread and pizza maker is physically and mentally demanding.
Being a sourdough bread and pizza maker on a food trailer is something else entirely.

It’s not romantic. It’s not slow. It’s not linen aprons and golden-hour light. It’s steel, heat, weight, and movement. Constant movement.

I love it.
But let me paint the picture.

The Morning After (Every Morning)

Every day begins with the same negotiation.

I wake up and attempt to roll over in bed.
Attempt.

My back doesn’t cooperate right away. There’s a pause where my body decides whether this is happening now or after coffee, stretching, and a few creative curse words. Standing on a hard floor inside a trailer for 10–12 hours will teach you new respect for gravity.

Rolling out of bed has become a controlled maneuver, like exiting a crashed vehicle.

Everything Is Heavy

Here’s the part people never imagine.

Flour does not arrive in delicate, artisanal parcels. It comes in 50-pound sacks that need to be lifted, stacked, moved, and lifted again. Propane tanks don’t float into place either. They are awkward, stubborn, and always heavier than you remember.

This is the warm-up.
Before the real work even starts.

The Trailer Never Stops Breaking

A food trailer is a living, breathing thing that wakes up every day choosing violence.

Something is always broken. A latch. A hinge. A regulator. A light. A hose. And it never breaks when you’re free. It breaks when you’re busy, behind, hot, and already covered in flour.

So you climb ladders. You crawl under things. You fix problems with one hand while the other holds dough that’s ready whether you are or not. There is no maintenance department (other than Parker Egert from PJE Construction, who is our lifesaver).

The Shoes Incident (Trailer Edition)

After standing all day in a moving metal box, your feet swell just enough to betray you.

You take your shoes off and immediately realize you still need to walk the dog. Or carry one more thing. Or climb back into the trailer because you forgot something critical.

Putting shoes back on after 12 hours in a food trailer should be an Olympic event. I bend over like a question mark, holding my breath, wondering how this became harder than baking bread.

I Am Never Clean

Flour gets everywhere.
Not just on you—into you.

My clothes are permanently stained with flour, olive oil, ash, and the faint scent of smoke and propane. I clean obsessively. I clean so I can bake. Then I clean again so I can bake again tomorrow. Inside a trailer, cleanliness isn’t optional—it’s survival.

And somehow, despite all that cleaning, I always end the night looking like I just escaped a grain silo.

The Mental Load No One Sees

Beyond the physical toll is the mental grind.

Fermentation schedules. Timing. Heat. Wind. Cold. Rain. Power. Gas. Dough that does not care that you’re tired or that something just broke. There is no pause button. No margin for error. The trailer moves. The oven runs. The dough demands attention.

You don’t clock out from this. You carry it with you. You think about hydration percentages while brushing your teeth. You replay bakes in your head like game film.

The Couch Is My Bed Now

Most nights, I don’t go to sleep.

I shut down.

Usually on the couch. Still in work clothes. Shoes nearby. One hand on my chest like I’ve just completed a heroic act. I wake up confused, sore, and strangely proud that I made it that far.

The Contrast That Still Makes Me Laugh

I used to be an executive producer on Rescue Me.

Air-conditioned executive offices. Writers’ rooms. Chairs. Craft services. Meetings where the hardest physical task was reaching for coffee. If something broke, someone else fixed it.

That life was cushy.

This one is brutal.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Why I Keep Doing It

There is something deeply honest about this work.

Bread and pizza don’t care about your résumé. They don’t care who you used to be. They respond only to attention, effort, and respect. The trailer doesn’t care either. It demands presence.

This job humbles you. It beats you up. It leaves you sore, dirty, and exhausted.

And then it rewards you—with moments that feel real. With food people gather around. With pride you earn, not inherit.

I am tired.
I am sore.
I am filthy.

And even with all of it—especially with all of it—I love this life.