I F**ked Up in the Kitchen and Now Everything in Life Is Ruined
On recognising when the stakes are high (and when they're not)
Welcome to Simple + Straightforward, a weekly letter about living on your own terms in a simple, meaningful way. If this is your first time here, welcome! I’m so pleased to have you in this little community.
(Disclaimer: When I get stressed, I swear a LOT so if the word fuck bothers you, you might not want to read on this week…)
CHARLIE: Do you fancy cooking something nice this evening and having a date night? I was thinking roasted leeks with romesco sauce and making pasta carbonara. Not just any old carbonara though, I want to use the authentic recipe we saw our chef friend post on Instagram back when chefs were posting lockdown videos.
HUSBAND: Yeah sounds great.
CHARLIE: *Watches carbonara video 4 times.* Right, I think I get it. It’s a bit trickier than the usual stick a bit of bacon in with an egg yolk job we’ve done before, are you up for the challenge?
HUSBAND: Erm sure, but don’t worry if it doesn’t go right, yeah? Remember, it’s our first try at a dish that people have perfected for generations.
CHARLIE: Yeah yeah, I promise. I won’t get stressed. On to make the Romesco sauce. Where’s the blender?
HUSBAND: What blender? You live in an Airbnb, stick blenders are like gold dust remember?
CHARLIE: Urgh, OK, I’ll hand pound the sauce by hand. Almonds, roasted tomatoes, fried bread, oil, vinegar, bugger I forgot the garlic. OK let’s do it anyway…*10 minutes later*…WHY THE FUCK WON’T THIS SAUCE BIND TOGETHER?! Have you roasted the leeks yet?
HUSBAND: Yeah they’re nearly done.
CHARLIE: Well they’re just going to have to wait whilst I try to emulsify a sauce using the end of a rolling pin. Erm, why are those leeks black?
HUSBAND: I dunno, you set the oven. Hang on…why did you set it to broil?
CHARLIE: Because it’s a fucking oven that I’ve never fucking used before because this is a new Airbnb. Urgh WHY DOES THIS SAUCE TASTE LIKE SHIT?
HUSBAND: We forgot the garlic didn’t we.
CHARLIE: Well I hope we enjoy our tasteless sauce with our blackened, undercooked leeks. On to the carbonara I suppose.
HUSBAND: OK so the video says we heat the eggs and cheese super slowly in the pan, emuslifying with pasta water.
CHARLIE: I’ll do it. I’ll just backseat cook if I don’t.
HUSBAND: No come on, I want to be involved here.
CHARLIE: OK fine. Take that pan off the heat, or the eggs will scramble. Watch the heat, WATCH THE HEAT. OK, eggs in. Watch those eggs, WATCH THOSE EGGS! FUCK. They’re scrambling.
HUSBAND: They’re not.
CHARLIE: Well they fucking will in a minute if you don’t take them off the fucking heat.
HUSBAND: Right! You cook it then.
CHARLIE: I fucking will. Oh fuck.
HUSBAND: What now?
CHARLIE: We’ve run out of pasta water.
HUSBAND: Can’t we just use water from the kettle?
CHARLIE: No we fucking can’t because the water from the fucking kettle doesn’t have any fucking starch in it which is what binds the fucking sauce.
HUSBAND: We have to use something.
CHARLIE: Fine. But I tell you now, this will be a sub-standard carbonara. No Italian nonna will want anything to do with us ever again.
HUSBAND: How many nonnas do you know!?
CHARLIE: None, and I fucking won’t after this disaster will I?! WATCH THOSE EGGS.
HUSBAND: I think we’re going to have to serve this and be done with it.
CHARLIE: Fine. Oh FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
HUSBAND: What?
CHARLIE: The wine is fucking corked. Everything is ruined. I’m off to bed.
So you may be able to tell I have perfectionist tendancies. And never is this more obvious than when I’m in the kitchen, because food and wine are my first loves. They’re what I look forward to at the end of every day, thus I really hate it when I fuck them up.
But it’s just one dinner. At 37 years old, this was around the 13,500th dinner of my life, and I’ve (hopefully) still got another 18,000 of them to go.
The stakes are super low and yet I’m acting like they’re super high.
What’s more, the carbonara freakout masked the real purpose of the evening which was to spend some quality time with my husband.
It’s an obvious point. Don’t sweat the small stuff. Your health, time and energy is worth more.
Obvious it may be, but it’s a point that needs reiterating time and time again.
In our uber-connected world, we have countless daily opportunities to jump into a pointless argument that makes us feel like crap. It’s what algorithms feed on. And it’s not just online. How many times this week have you found yourself feeling angry, stressed or upset about something small?
Clearly I have a long way to go myself. But this weekend, I implore you to do yourself a favour. Take notice when an obstacle makes you swear like a sailor. Call yourself out on it. And do something about it, like taking the time to remember - it’s only dinner.
And whatever you do, don’t make roasted leeks with romesco sauce and pasta carbonara for your tea. It may sound delicious, but that shit ain’t worth it.
Stuff I’ve done this week to improve my sleep
Moving to Georgia (the country, not the state) this month means I’m 4 hours ahead of my usual time zone. It’s been a long time since I’ve engaged in any long-haul travel and I’ve really felt the jet lag (I know, 4 hours isn’t much, but it’s still enough to disrupt).
This culminated at the beginning of the week in sitting in the dark at 3.30am and writing a piece about insomnia vs productivity. Something had to give. Because sleep is non-negotiatble.
So I did some really simple things to help lull me into dreamyland:
I got comfy. The last Airbnb we had didn’t have a great mattress which wasn’t helping me drift off, but thankfully we moved somewhere later in the week that does. If you’re not living on the road and you actually have control over your bed, for the love of God, invest in a good mattress. You won’t believe the difference it makes to your quality of sleep.
I blacked out the curtains, which meant a MacGyver style set up, pegging a spare duvet up across the thin curtains. Because light and sleep are enemies.
I opened the window. A stupidly simple thing, but most bedrooms are too hot, you should be aiming for 65°F (18°C) when the average room is more like 70°F (21°C).
I read until I was sleepy. Often I’ll think hey, put that book down, you have to get up tomorrow, but if I’m not sleepy, I just lie awake anyway. So now I read until my body - not my mind - tells me it’s time to put that book down.