Sharing stories of food stories we love.
Today I thought we’d talk a little bit about breakfast. You’re okay with that, right? You seem like someone who is happy to order the croissant and the baguette, and I like that about you.
Before we go on, let’s get this whole “most important meal of the day” business out of the way. I know it is. I do. But I feel more of an emotional connection with dinner, and that’s just how it’s going to be. You can’t choose who you love, you know?
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As it turns out, there’s a very fine line between striving for your best and perfectionism, between pushing yourself and being hard on yourself.
I’ve spent most of my twenties walking that line, often finding myself on the wrong side of it.
Have you felt that dogged determination to succeed? Has it brought you good things? For me it has, at times. If you’re settling for the attainable, how can you soar to unexpected heights?
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My mother is a very good cook. She is also an expert woodworker, makes a killer chocolate biscotti, and she picks up the phone whenever one of her four daughters call, which (if you know anything about family) should earn her sainthood since at least one of us four is always in the midst of a crisis. That's just basic math.
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I'm suspended 20,000 feet in the air. The airplane rumbles underneath my feet. A patchwork of fields and forest spreads out below me. I’m picturing tiny people in their tiny houses, easing into the dual comfort and anxiety of a Sunday night soon to turn into a Monday morning.
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I've written about this soup before, but it merits revisiting. Each time I cook it, I find myself on the phone with my mother, or my sister, or a friend, vehemently explaining how good it is, as if they have nothing better to do than drop everything and make soup.
But if they did, and if you do, I promise you'll thank me.
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