That Whole Comparison Complex
Shall I compare thee to a –
published writer/New Yorker essayist/head chef/bronzed long-boarding babe/insert any 'ideal' of perfectionism here?
Not sure about you but I compare myself to all of these ideals on a daily basis. Maybe even three times a day. Sometimes four, if I'm feeling particularly self-deprecating. Sure, yes, it's human to have those paralysing moments of self doubt, breakdowns over "not being good enough" and a sulk because you've not written a novel by age 30 (did anyone else know that Donna Tartt wrote The Secret History at 28? What had I done by 28? Lived in a shed?). But the comparison/perfection complex has been troubling me for too long and it's about time I broke up with it.
The other evening after a long walk around the neighbourhood, I thought I'd try my hand at cacio e pepe. I mean, it's cheese, pepper and pasta water. SO SIMPLE, she thought. Perfect for a 9pm dinner, she mused, following a New York Times recipe but forgetting that she doesn't really deal in measurements so when Mark Bittman tells you to create a paste with parmesan, pecorino, pepper and water and you just freestyle it, there will be consequences. And my god were there consequences. Coagulated parmesan and ground pepper formed in chunks, far too much pasta water in an attempt to 'dissolve' them, and therefore a wholly bland and deconstructed meal. So I did what I know how to do best: I sulked. I all but threw my pasta dish on the table, declared that it was "the worst meal I've ever cooked" (I say this often), which then graduated into "this is the worst meal that has ever been cooked in the world. Ever." (Yes, I'm a big fan of hyperbole.) My ever patient and kind boyfriend kept up the rouse, forking the entire plate into his mouth and told me he thought it was tasty and that it couldn't be my fault. It was the recipe's fault. (It was totally my fault).
I sulked for about 30 minutes, and the feeling that laid heavy on my mind was that Alison Roman wouldn't have fucked this up. Nor would anyone of the people I regularly stalk on Instagram and valiantly try to emulate. I know it's gauche to admit that you're obsessed with perfection. Or that you honestly believe that some people are perfect. Seriously, there's a whole list of them in my head right now. The comparison complex is a millennial affliction, passed on from Instagram account to Instagram account. Unlike our younger Gen Z counterparts, who embrace the messy, the human and the imperfect, we're still crying in bathrooms at dinner parties (big 2019 me energy) because we're sat next to someone who is nailing life so much harder than us. Metaphorically speaking. No one is at a dinner party rn.
The problem with comparisons – and there are many – is that it stops you doing what you love with wild abandon, and sucks the enjoyment right out of it. It happens when I write and when I cook. When I sit down to write, I'm thinking about whether my words will ever be as good as Jia Tolentino so much that I close my laptop. When I cook, I'm assuming that the recipe I'm making up will inevitably fall short of Ottolenghi and order take out instead. When I'm scrolling Instagram, I genuinely stop and ruminate on whether my food storytelling and personality will ever match up to that of Dolly Alderton, Alison Roman or Molly Baz.
In short, the obvious answer is to just stop comparing. To stop assuming that there is even such thing as perfection – or that people can be the at the pinnacle of it. Because these are all just abstract constructs formed in our minds. And let's be honest, the real MVP – other than you, duh – is Meryl Streep in all the films where she cooks food (Heartburn, It's Complicated, Julie & Julia). And while we can all strive to inhabit big Meryl energy, I think she'd want us to be wholly, unapologetically and loudly ourselves.
So here's to fucking up the pasta and realising that the only thing you need to compare yourself is to the best, most kind and most human version of you. Or something like that.
Cat x
basic soup and sammies.
Some respite from a news cycle week that ranged from joyous roast chicken (Democrats won the Senate!) to a failed attempt at cacio e pepe (national lockdown and white supremacists storming the Capitol) was a Saturday soaked in winter sun, where I discovered a new waterside path near my flat, got shat on by a pigeon (gross but it's lucky right?!), and with cold hands and tired legs decided to make a simple grilled cheese with Heinz tomato soup. Because sure, you *could* make a soup from scratch, but then you would miss out on the silky, creamy texture of the £1 tin of wonders. Heinz soups remind me of my dad who I haven't hugged in a year, so there's that too. Plus, I believe in doing one thing well, so concentrate on the grilled cheese otherwise you might burn one side like I still managed to do.
One tin of Heinz cream of tomato soup
2 thickly cut slices of bread (I used sourdough because it's what I had left, but tbh a less holy bread might work better)
3-4 slices of cheese (I used gouda, bc this scene in She's The Man)
Mayonnaise
A knob of butter
Bitter leaves like radicchio
Spread a thin layer of mayo on one side of each piece of bread. Once you've melted the butter in a wide non-stick pan on a medium-high heat, place one slice of bread, mayo side down and the slices of cheese on top. Crack some black pepper on top. Meanwhile, heat up the soup in a pan on medium heat.
Turn on the grill to around 200ºC, and once the bread starts to sizzle with the butter, transfer to the grill and keep an eye out for soft melting cheese. Once it looks appropriately gooey, bring it back to the hob (on low-medium, this is v important!), add the leaves and the second slice and turn the sandwich over so the top side of bread gets some sizzle. You can add a little more butter if the pan is looking dry. Press down with a spatula until both sides are golden and crispy.
Cut in half, serve with soup and maybe watch Sweetbitter because it's everything you want in a tv show – food, appetite, sex, love, lust and a main character who is constantly comparing herself to a 'sister figure' who she thinks is perfect. I wonder why I love it so much.
food stories.
– On the subject of millennials and Instagram, Vox asks how Instagrammy Cookware Brands Got So Popular.
– The FT's Ajesh Patalay on How To Eat In 2021
– One Washington Post writer ruminates on his Dinners With Le Carré
leftovers.
– I've been searching for a roast chicken on crispy rice recipe for two weeks, and it came in the form of Korean chef Esther Choi's YouTube channel
– Discovering this tortilla hack from @alphafoodie is enough to make me want to venture into the TikTok world
– SNOA community member Mehlaqa Khan's colourful recipes are a deep anti-lockdown mood
– Will be making The Korean Vegan's shallot and chickpea stew with cavalo nero for dinner next week
– More lunch inspiration from a favourite foodie account, Brown Boy Dinners in the form of leftover salmon, cauliflower and lentil salad
– Trying to let go of my Alison Roman comparison complex, so will just say that I really enjoyed her PLS newsletter on our shared love of dill
– Recently watched Kramer Vs Kramer and was a) obsessed with their outfits (particularly Dustin's) and b) this scene of him trying to make French Toast
before you go.
Hello to new subscribers this week! By now you'll have learned that while this newsletter is about food, it's also about storytelling and very unmeasured, subject-to-failure recipes. And to speak to my comparison complex, I'm never going to be a recipe writer like Samin Nosrat, or a chef like Ottolenghi – but what I can offer is some lighthearted, tongue-in-cheek anecdotes that might resonate, offer inspiration and maybe make you laugh/cry. That's the aim here. Sometime in the near future (i.e. when I do a project timeline bc that's the kind of person I am), the Since No One Asked website will arrive on a screen near you. I'm talking interviews, essays, playlists, community conversations and more real-life food dramas.
Obviously in more normal times, I'd suggest going for an IRL coffee (or more likely, a martini). But if you like what you're reading and want to support my writing, I've set up a Ko-Fi account.
and if you like what I'm putting down?
Tell your friends! Tell your family! Tell your lovers!