You may be forgiven, if you are a regular reader of this column, for thinking that my primary motivation in cooking is showing off. I’m always banging on about lovely dishes you can serve to unsuspecting guests that will guarantee plaudits and amazement. But while there is more than a kernel of truth in this, I think that it’s actually simpler than that: what I crave from cooking is satisfaction. And I don’t mean satiation of hunger (although that too: I am greedy), but the sense of achievement that cooking – almost – invariably brings.
True, this achievement can often be found in presenting a beautiful cake to an assembled group of people, or your new friend saying ‘You know, I think these are the best brownies I’ve ever tried’. But it can also be a solitary satisfaction that isn’t quite so bound up with flaunting your bakes.
I love cooking the most when I successfully bring together a carbonara sauce, or feel the weight of a curd thicken in the pan; when I pound out a piece of meat to an impossible breadth and thinness for schnitzel, or hear the confident hiss as I add wine to a burgeoning risotto. The moment when a Swiss meringue transforms from a soupy mess to a glossy, rich buttercream is just as celebratory as flaming a brandy-soaked Christmas pudding in front of your family.
Unless you’re on MasterChef (or have a very keen three-year-old sous chef, like I sometimes do), you’re unlikely to be watched or held accountable during these kitchen moments. They’re just part of the process, rather than the end product.
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