Isn’t it awful that the older you get, the more you know yourself? It’s supposed to be a good thing, attributed to wisdom, experience and a deeper understanding of our place in the world around us. But good lord, self-awareness can be a cruel mistress.
I have realised that my greatest culinary goal is simply unachievable. You see, I long to appear effortless. This is true throughout my life, but particularly so when it comes to cooking. Every time I invite friends round for lunch or dinner, I resolve that this is the time when everything will not only be easy but, crucially, I will make it look easy. That I will simply throw something together that everyone will adore; the gathered diners will be equally impressed by the food and by the nonchalance with which I’ve assembled it. But when it comes to it, I’m elbow-deep in batter, I’ve introduced two elements that need deep-frying at the last minute and I’ve inexplicably decided to serve a second pudding. I am incapable of not making a meal out of making a meal.
I guess I’m just not a throw-something-together kind of gal, however much I may wish to be. It’s like that Margaret Thatcher quote about how being powerful is like being a lady: if you have to try really hard to be effortless, you aren’t. I’m simply not a seat-of-the-pantser – I don’t fridge-forage; I cannot substitute ingredients without panic and a certain amount of resentment. If anything ever looks thrown together in my home (or life), I can guarantee it has been the subject of carefully crafted shopping and to-do lists, probably a time plan, and maybe even an existential crisis.
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