God help me, I’m going to break down and do a pie crust video soon. I can feel it. I feel… crusty.
Could be dry skin. I dunno.
I keep running across these videos on Facetagram that start with some bullshit like, “You’ve been cooking X wrong your whole life...” and you know what? Fuck them. And fuck a system designed to make you feel inadequate just to sell you something.
I’m classically trained in French cuisine. There are correct methods for bringing out the best in ingredients, sure. But like everything else, it’s subjective—because at the end of the day, the best results are the ones you want. Not what someone else tells you to want.
Only you can decide what’s right for you—what you eat, what you drink, who you love, who you vote for, which spiritual path you follow. All of it. It’s your responsibility. Handing it over for the approval of others is letting them own a piece of your life. You give up your identity and become an extension of them. It doesn’t matter which them. If you give in, you’re not you anymore. You’re they. And how the hell is that in your best interest?
Only you can decide. They’ll say otherwise.
I don’t want to be they or them. I want to be me. If you’re a follower—if “You’ve been doing it wrong…” stirs up feelings of inadequacy or exclusion—I don’t want to make that worse for you. You have to go your own way. And if that means never being who you truly are? Well, that’s your choice.
My only point is: there are other options.
The most vile swindle of any religion, government, or marketing firm is convincing you that you are nothing without them.
I can cook anything and turn out a decent result. I start with an idea of where I want to go, and I get there, more or less, using proven methods. Many are classical. Many are mine. I go with what works—unless I’m just in one of those moods.
That said, I’m also pretty hidebound in how I do things. I can fall into the “You’re doing it wrong” camp—and I hate that about myself. Here’s why:
My wife, Mrs. Otherdamncook, makes two things I can’t. Her egg sandwiches, and this weird little thing we call “Bacon Shell Mac.”
Now, I can make the fuck out of an egg sandwich. Dozens of ways. I can make you taste every ingredient in sequence. I can arrange them so you taste nothing but the sandwich as a whole. I can build a flavor narrative on your palate. But I can’t make hers. Because she does it wrong.
Same with her bacon shell mac. It’s born of poverty and the need to feed too many people under one roof. Four ingredients: pasta shells, bacon (bacon was cheap once), onions, and ketchup. Yeah. Ketchup. Sounds awful, right?
It’s not.
It’s amazing. It’s satisfying. And I can’t make it right to save my soul.
Sure, I can use the same four ingredients and do a solid job. Hell, I might even argue mine is technically better. But if what I want is what she makes? Then no—I’m not doing it better.
So do it “wrong.” Let them judge you. What they think of you is their business. Never let them dictate the rules of your game. Because the second you do, it’s not your game anymore.
Now go cook something. Your way.
