Between Fear and Fire
The kitchen is the one place where I can breathe. The steady knock of my knife on the cutting board, the way the oil snaps when it hits the pan, those sounds settle me in a way that few others do. My thoughts line up only when my hands are busy. Though the moment I imagine someone actually tasting what I've made, my chest tightens. It's strange, loving to cook this much while still getting anxious about letting anyone else near the plate.
People often speak of cooking for others as an act of pure generosity, care, and intimacy. While I understand and believe in that sentiment, my experience carries a sharper edge. For me, every dish is an audition, every plate an exam I'm convinced I might fail. I brace myself for disappointment that hasn't even arrived, imagining someone's hesitant forklift before they've even taken a bite. My perfectionism, rather than a strength, becomes a trap, whispering that anything less than flawless will expose me as someone unworthy.
This pressure hits even harder because people know I went to culinary school. The second anyone learns that, their expectations jump; they want Michelin-grade food, and suddenly, my food isn't just dinner. My cooking becomes a way to prove that the years, the tuition, and those long, grueling shifts were worth it. And when that happens, every slip feels huge. A sauce that's a little underseasoned, a sear that's uneven, or a small dice that isn't perfectly cubed, isn't just a mistake anymore; it feels like I'm failing at something I'm supposed to have already mastered. I sense eyes on the plate long before anyone sits down, a pressure stemming not from the school itself, but from the knowledge that others are measuring me through its lens.
I observe other chefs, seemingly so grounded, moving with an innate certainty that speaks louder than any fear. I study their effortless confidence, hoping to decipher how they align their instincts so perfectly. I wonder if they ever harbor the same nagging questions that reside beneath my ribs. Do they ever enter the kitchen, fearing a single wrong move could expose them? Do dishes replay in their minds long after service concludes, or have they achieved a level of confidence that still feels impossibly distant for me?
A droning whisper reminds me, "You’re pretending. You’re wearing a title you haven’t earned."
Sometimes, wearing a chef's apron feels like donning a costume meant for someone else. I tie the strings, praying the tremor inside me doesn't betray itself through my hands, and move as if I believe in myself, hoping one day the act will become reality. My fear isn't baseless; I grew up surrounded by home cooks who moved through the kitchen with an ease that felt like a dance. They seasoned without thought, fed entire households without hesitation, and possessed a confidence I admired more than I ever voiced. When I seriously began cooking, I aimed to honor their legacy, but found myself oscillating between pride and panic, striving to create something worthy of both my training and my roots.
Still, I return to the kitchen.
I return even when perfectionism tries to siphon the joy from everything, when fear whispers that quitting would be safer than trying. Cooking is the one space where I can truly settle into myself, even if sharing the outcome makes my entire body tense. The process itself holds a profound truth: peeling, slicing, stirring, searing. These tasks are indifferent to my insecurities; they demand attention and reward patience. They remind me that craft is a slow, deliberate build, not a single, audacious leap. True mastery lies in accepting that once a plate leaves my hands, it no longer belongs to me. Each diner brings their own history, preferences, and mood to every bite, factors beyond my control. What I can control, however, is my intention, and I can cherish the joy that arrives long before anyone else tastes the result. And the sheer delight I find in the process will eventually outweigh the terror of judgment, allowing the delicious stories my food tells to silence my internal critic, finally.
