Wednesday Bubble: Taking on self-doubt. One recipe at a time. Guest post by Wendy Scherer

Posted by Liz on Nov 3, 2010 in Inspiration | 7 comments

It never ceases to amaze me. We are capable, empowered, smart, successful women. We’ve achieved things that our mothers could have only dreamed of achieving, have had kids, families, husbands, businesses, relationships….the list goes on. However, when self-doubt starts to creep in, it cripples, it blocks our pathways, it wreaks havoc on every cell of our being. However, sometimes, all it takes it a moment to step back, reassess and move on, hopefully, strengthened with the knowledge that we can take on the world. Yes. We. Can.  Here’s Wendy Scherer’s story.

It’s not that I didn’t start out believing I could cook…I grew up in a home where I was taught that I could do anything. I was encouraged to take on every new challenge. And, in many cases, I was successful. Thinking back, I wonder if this track record is what led to my eventual downfall.

I’m a terrible cook.

I know you’re thinking that I’m being dramatic. But really? I’m not. Allow me to back up a bit… (wooo eee wooo eeee…. you know like in the movies….)

My mom made dinner every night. Nothing fancy, but I liked it. I loved her brisket and stews. I dreamed of egg and noodle casserole (who eats like that anymore?), and her sweet and sour chicken was really tasty. But I never helped her cook. I don’t even remember why. Maybe I had homework. Maybe she cooked while I was in school. Maybe I thought I was too much a feminist to ‘have to’ cook. I have no idea. But I did bake with her. I loved making desserts. And I loved baking challah. It was all so scientific and logical. And relaxing. We would talk and bake. I remember it well. Baking is so low-key. So calming. There’s a different kind of pressure in cooking a meal. The meal is the core. If dessert isn’t so great, whatever. If the meal goes uneaten, that’s it.

Moving right along. I grew up.

My first year of college, I lived in a dorm. I ate most meals in the dining hall since I had a meal plan. (I also ate at the greasy spoon where I worked that year since I got a free meal with every shift I worked.) The following 2 years, I lived in a group house with 9 other students. We had 2 kitchens. I still had a restaurant job, so some meals were eaten out, but mostly, I ate canned vegetables, mac & cheese (blue box), tuna, and Ramen noodles. It’s a wonder I lived to tell the tale. My senior year, I got an apartment. Still, I barely did more than assemble a meal. But then….I met a guy. After a while, I invited him over for dinner. Truthfully, I never doubted I could whip up a great meal and impress the heck out of him.

Not the case.

I served him lasagna that was so liquid-y that I couldn’t even serve it with a spoon. And the garlic bread that I made? I smelled it burning as we finished our lasagna soup. (That guy is still a friend and he still reminds me of that meal now and again. Oy.) Still, I had the confidence of youth. This was a one-time disaster. Right?  Not really. And I don’t know if I never bothered to read the recipes through or didn’t understand the directions or simply did not have enough interest, but after a while, I resigned myself to very simple assembled meals. But boy did I bake. I made pies and cookies. I made bread. I loved the therapy of it all – the kneading. The beautiful results. The smiles when I gave it away. I baked and I baked and I baked.And then I got married. I had big plans. Big plans, I say. I got cookbooks for my shower and I was going to become a good cook. I was going to make something besides desserts and reservations.But he had ‘rules.’ He didn’t like cheese or sauces. He didn’t mix this with that or whatever – basically, this did not become a learning experience. We ate like crap. Even I didn’t like what I threw together. Top that off with (and you are not going to believe this), he expected me to cook every night. Hey wait! I had a full-time job, too!

Fast forward.

Single again. Lots of dating. And that means lots of meals out. Finally, I was eating good food. I was trying new things and really expanding my food horizons. But I worked long hours at an advertising agency and ended up grabbing dinner on the nights I wasn’t going out. Then, I met my current hub.

The first time he cooked for me, I was amazed. It was like a restaurant meal with accompaniments, garnishes and it tasted great. One meal led to another and then we got married. We tried cooking together. Sounds fun, right? Nah. Not fun.I cooked sometimes. I tried. Really. Really. Hard. And knowing that I wanted to become a better cook, he’d provide constructive criticism. You know, so I could learn. I’m a sensitive girl.  It wasn’t working for me. And since he made fabulous meals every night, why should I bother?

Some nights, he’s not here (the horror!). Early on, I’d make the kids some hotdogs or spaghetti or throw something in the crockpot. I mean, even I can make basic soups. Every time I tried something harder, it seemed no one was very hungry that night. It didn’t make it easier to try again, trust me. But. I am a capable person. I really can’t believe how awful this made me feel. So like Lucy and the football, I’ve decided to try again with a different tact. I’ve started subscribing to the Six O’Clock Scramble and I cautiously say that sometimes, I’ve been successful. The Mulligatawny Stew I made last week was delish!

The truth is, if I’d felt more support and had less self-doubt, I could have done this years ago. But I didn’t. Why now? Or should I ask, what have I been waiting for? Or maybe I should ask, why bother? Here’s the thing. It sucks to feel insecure. I’m confident in my work, in my ability to be a good friend, good wife, good mother, good daughter. I’m informed, interested, always learning. I feel good about myself. But this thing is hanging out there. I’m a bad cook. It feels like a hole that I can’t climb out of. And my reaction to ruining a dish by burning the onions or not cooking it through or even the kids not liking it are simply out of proportion to the severity of the problem. And I don’t seem to be able to lessen my reaction, my sadness, my anxiety.

I’m done. I am not going to allow myself to beat myself up over this any more. It’s cooking, people. It’s not brain surgery. There are no lives at stake here. And the kids – well the kids will live if they miss a meal.

There, I said it.

I’m going to be 50 years old next year, and I’ll be damned if I can’t make myself (or anyone else) a decent meal. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was afraid of failing here. I am. But I have a plan. (I always do better with a plan.)

1. Read Cooks Illustrated every month. I realize the recipes are challenging, but I’ll be reading for the explanations of food preparation.
2. Stop blogging while Andrew and the boys watch The Food Network. I’m certain I can learn something about flavors and technique if I’d just pay attention.
3. Take responsibility for one meal a week. One. That’s not much, right? I can plan ahead and not feel the pressure of ‘what’s for dinner?’
4. YouTube. I’m going to watch and learn the basics. Knife skills. Sweating onions. Dice, mince… you get the point.
5. Start small. Easy stuff.
6. Lighten up. Try to laugh at the burned rice.

And more than anything, I’m going to cut myself some slack. I can learn how to cook. I can do this, right? I don’t want my kids to see me fail. But even more, I want them to see that it’s okay if I’m not the perfect cook but I am trying to learn and improve. That would be a better life lesson for them. And a better life lesson for me, too.

So, I’m bucking up. It’s time. And while I’m at it, there are a few other things I’ve been putting off. That blank canvas, for one thing….

So this is my public, official kick in the butt. If not now, when?

About the author...Wendy blogs at Finding Blanche http://findingblanche and photoblogs at http://wendyscherer.com and is on Twitter @wendyscherer.