Everyone tells me I’m a really good cook. A gourmet cook. Friends, family, my book group—all rave about the dinners and desserts I prepare for them. Dinners like lobster paella or herb marinated Greek lamb with yogurt mint sauce, and desserts such as Valrhona chocolate mousse with fresh berry coulis, crème fraiche and homemade hazelnut praline crisp. When company is coming, I sometimes spend two or three days in the kitchen, planning, prepping, timing. And often, I’m proud of the result. I’ve been told I should start a restaurant.
But I do not think I am a good cook. In fact, with every meal, I am terrified that I won’t be able to pull it off.
To me, a great cook is someone who scavenges through the refrigerator—or the farmers market— and throws together ordinary ingredients to make something fabulous. Someone who intuitively knows what will work, someone who has such flair that they can create a memorable meal in an hour. Someone who chops and stirs and whisks and sautes while also talking up guests and pouring a new wine she has discovered. In other words, a cook with talent.
What I have is the willingness to spend hours scouring cookbooks to find a recipe that I’m confident I can make, then days prepping and preparing, so I’m not caught off guard on the day of. Yes, my plate is beautifully presented with a garnish of homemade chutney—but only because I spent three hours making it two nights ago. And only because I followed the recipe, step-by-step. If the meal is great, it is because I was willing to put in the work.
Writing is like that. I know there are talented people out there who can whip off bestsellers at the rate of one a year. And there are creative writers whose sentences flow so beautifully, you want to read them over and over to bask in their loveliness. I, personally, hate those writers. For most of us, writing is just a lot of hard work. Yes, there are those glorious moments when my character takes off and writes herself, when I don’t know how the words appeared on the page. Bravo! That’s what makes it all worthwhile. But most of the time, my writing gets on the page because I forced myself to plan and outline and research and revise. I am driven by the same terror that drives my cooking—terror that I can’t do it, so, in order to do it well, I have to put in the work.
Once, my husband Tom suggested that I make something “easy” for our company meal. Relax, he said; keep it casual (I think he was hoping it would relieve him of sous chef duties…). So I bought taco kits, chopped a few onions and tomatoes, and put out bowls of the ingredients for guests to make their own. I can’t say how it went over—our friends may have loved it—but I was too busy feeling humiliated to notice.
So ultimately it’s about what works for me. Do I always feel like cooking for company? No, but if I know they are coming, I get the cookbooks out and start making lists. Do I always feel like writing? Absolutely not. In fact, I’d almost always rather do anything else, from playing solitaire to folding the laundry. Writing is terrifying. What if I can’t pull it off? But I’ve learned, just as with cooking, the more time that goes into it, the more confident I can be of the result.