I was digging through my notes app to find a worksheet I'm trying to refine this morning, and while I was looking, I found a conversation with a participant from the course I created in 2020 called "The Sensuality of Food". She asks how critique makes it difficult to stay in a state of pleasure. The answer was pretty cool and made me miss cooking. The timing is hilarious since:
a) I can't cook anymore (it's such a long story, and if you've ever had the experience of something you used to love just all of a sudden drying up, PLEASE let's have a chat. Seriously.)b) I'm mid-pivot away from using "pleasure" as the focal point for my work (there's a whole story there too!)
If you have the patience to read the whole thing, you might like it. And if you can relate to the challenge of letting go of an attachment to outcomes, you might get something from it. I want to hear about it if you do!
Ok, here it goes:
Question:
"Dropping this in here while it's fresh in my mind... Amelia, I really liked your observation about critique being in tension with your experience of pleasure in the moment. I think I have a similar tendency, in cooking as well as in other contexts, and I've learned to be careful about sharing even my critique of my own cooking with other people. I'm curious if you have things that you do to stay more closely in touch with your pleasure even as you're trying to find ways to make future experiences better."
My Answer:
Amazing question!
Firstly, I’m nearly always in a state of critique about my cooking. Critique, which is different from criticism. By critique, I mean thoughtfully reflecting and assessing, where "criticism" usually carries a negative or judgmental tone.
I love a good self-critique and really enjoy the process of gathering information, assessing and refining. But I know (like you) that sharing critiques of my own cooking can affect how much someone else is able to enjoy it. "I think it could have used more salt, and I’m not sure that the acidity is quite balanced, you know?" just smacks of a humble brag, scrounging for compliments, or sets us in the un-delicious dynamic of having them reassure or praise me when really they should just be delighting in the luxurious creation on their plate. So—depending on the situation—I keep my critiques to myself.
To answer the question of what I do to stay in touch with pleasure while also finding ways to make things better: The key is to first get very clear on my desire. When I’m clear on what I want, I’m able to stay closely in touch with what feels delightful to me.
In my experience, cooking tends to fall into two broad categories: one focused on the pure joy of creating something delicious, and another driven by the desire to refine a skill. When it comes to the first, I find that the less attached I am to a specific outcome, the more intensely pleasurable the process becomes. I'll set a general course and head in that direction, but I allow inspiration to guide me along the way, trusting that even if I don't end up where I initially aimed, the result will be something wonderful.
That kind of adventuring and openness works best, and I can remain most closely in touch with pleasure when I focus on the journey and not the outcome. If the only requirement is that it tastes good, then I’m probably going to do just fine. The less attached I am to an idea of what’s right and focus more on what is pleasurable, the better off I’ll be. It’s my experience that people rarely share the same expectations, and almost no one I’m cooking for knows what I originally set out to do. They have the benefit of receiving the final outcome.
For example: I do a volunteer week of cooking for a pretty large group of eye doctors and artists who put on a free eye clinic on a Lakota reservation in South Dakota. They work long hours and see thousands of patients during our time there, and I have the great honor of cooking for them. I have a personal goal in mind when I’m there, and it’s to bolster their spirits and nourish their bodies through food. They do very hard work under trying circumstances while facing the terrible inequalities on the reservation. Spirits take a hit.
So the meals need to be a little respite, something to look forward to that can also leave them feeling refreshed and revitalized so they can have the energy to keep going and keep helping people. I have a limited kitchen there, and I start out the week with a general idea of what our menu will be, but I also adjust according to the feel of the group. I’ll add in an afternoon treat if it seems like their energy is flagging, etc.
The afternoon treat became the highlight of the day the last year I was there. I had a bunch of apples that no one seemed to be eating for snacks and I decided to make an apple crisp and use them up. I don’t know what happened exactly, but that thing took FOREVER to cook, three times the normal amount of time, and when I got it out of the oven, I was mystified to find that the apples had basically disappeared, melted into a thin but intensely apple-flavored layer. I had an apple-scented, crispy, crumbly, oatmeal cookie-ish… thing.
I reflected for a moment on what could have gone wrong (I’m still not entirely sure, honestly) and decided I definitely couldn’t serve it as is (I probably could have). So I turned the whole thing upside down, got out my whisk, and made a large bowl of whipped cream and covered the crumbly pile with it. The word was spread that afternoon dessert was served, and the kitchen started to fill—volunteers leaning against any surface they could find, the sounds of tired conversation and spoons scraping against whipped cream and plates. Third helpings were asked for and given, and I managed not to say a word about how far from what I’d had in mind what they were eating was. Somehow, I’d created a different thing entirely from where I'd set out.
At the end of the week, one of the voluteer artists told me that the crew painting a mural (braving rattlesnake bites and 100-degree days in the sun!) spent HOURS discussing how they imagined that dessert had come to be. They spent much of that day and others dissecting it and reflecting on its qualities and marveling at how clever it was (ha!), having no idea that it was essentially an accident.
Being open to the mystery and wonder of accidents and staying closely aligned with inspiration and an ability to improvise helps me stay detached from outcomes (which really messes with my ability to stay in pleasure) and open to the power of creation. And I still have access to all the pleasures along the way:
- The feel of rubbing butter, sugar, and oats together in my hands
- The smell of green apples
- The lovely burnished top of browning crumble
- The sandy crack of hitting the back of a spoon against the top to see if it’s crisp enough
I strongly believe that the presence involved in being aware of all those small moments makes the final result more pleasurable, both for me and for whoever might be eating it with me. On a purely practical level, it’s easier to notice when something’s gone amiss and needs adjusting if my awareness is so alive.
Of course this isn't confined to cooking, cultivating that sense of presence and pleasure in the small moments ripples out into ecery area of my life and I credit that one strategy with helping me to mine all kinds of messy, complicated life moments for whatever delight may have stayed hidden otherwise.
Back to cooking: Now, when I’m trying to refine a skill, what I am focused on and what I'm assessing changes dramatically because it’s a process of refinement and honing a craft. My pleasure focus there is very different. Interestingly enough, for that one, I do benefit from a shared critique with someone else—I just tend to make it clear that’s what I want.
In this kind of situation, the pleasure of improvement and accomplishment is what I’m focused on. And it is inherently outcome-oriented. I know that’s where I'm going to discover the most pleasure: in watching myself grow in my abilities and move towards being the best that I can be at a given skill. I find it much harder to be content in this arena, and that’s largely by design. Seeking out the edges of my ability and capacity is pretty thrilling. Pushing myself just past (or well past!) my area of comfort can be very satisfying.
So, how do we balance "perfectionism" and staying in the present moment? I'm being a little lethal using that word perfectionism. As someone who can easily justify my harsher tendencies the judgment behind it makes me bristle. Ha!
Maybe it’s not about finding a perfect balance but about learning when to lean into each one. Perfectionism—or refinement (I like that one much better, thank you)—can sharpen our skills and stretch our capacity, but only if we invite it in with softness, not as a harsh judge but as a thoughtful guide. Staying in the present, on the other hand, lets us savor the raw joy of creation and connection, reminding us why we show up to the kitchen, or to life, in the first place.
For me, the trick has been knowing when to loosen my grip. Some days, I’m chasing growth; other days, I’m chasing delight. And then there are those magical, accidental moments—like an apple crisp that defies the laws of cooking—when I’m reminded that the most satisfying outcomes often come from letting go entirely.
So, where do you find yourself today—perfecting, savoring, or somewhere in between? I’d love to hear how you balance your own dance between the drive to improve and the joy of simply being.