What's going through my head right now #11

PERFECTION - or the scourge of expectations

We had visitors. I cooked. I finally took the time to do it again. The bread dough rose, could be kneaded, folded several times, rose again and again and later exuded that very special aroma that you recognise from early morning bakeries. The ingredients for the second course were sliced and ready in small bowls. The ragù alla bolognese was simmering away. The dessert was cooling on the bottom shelf at almost zero degrees. The table was set. Simple and yet prepared for all eventualities with plates, glasses, coasters, water carafes, colourful napkins and the first starters.

At the end of the evening (it was almost midnight) there was much praise and appreciation for the food served, the hospitality and the entertaining company. Secretly, however, I was more critical of my menu and my cooking skills. The bread was nowhere near as fluffy and full of air pockets as I had expected. The flavour of the first course was not as aromatic and distinctive - or rather smart - as I had intended and I had probably chosen pasta shapes that were too small for the next course. The final dessert was good, but also not WOW ... in my opinion.

Perfection? Aspiration? Where to start, what counts? What am I comparing myself to, or possibly being compared to?

The thing with the inner critic

So there I sit at the end of a successful evening, clearing the table, tidying up the kitchen and picking apart my own work like an over-motivated restaurant critic. While my guests were thanking me for the great food and the wonderful evening, I was already cataloguing the supposed shortcomings.

It's quite remarkable - and not in a good way. It is this peculiar human tendency not to simply leave things as they are, but to analyse them and criticise them down to the smallest detail. The glass that is normally half full in front of me now seems half empty and the temperature of the water could also be questioned.

Perspectives and perceptions

At my last reading, I was praised to the skies by the moderator during the introduction. The successes in dancing were mentioned, and that writing is also progressing with the onset of success. As a transition, he asked me whether I was also good at cooking. My first thought: hobby, it's just a hobby. But yes, I love cooking and have certain expectations of myself.

The relativity of perfection is nowhere more evident than in moments like this. My guests experienced an evening with lovingly prepared food, a pleasant atmosphere and good company. I, on the other hand, measured myself against a standard that was neither defined nor achievable - a phantom of cookery shows, Instagram posts and the nostalgic glorification of past meals.

I admire anyone who serves me a home-cooked meal and treats me to a culinary delight. And whether it's home cooking or sophisticated cuisine, home-style German fare or exotic foreign dishes ... Cooking and eating are pleasures of the soul. My ‘non-fluffy’ bread is probably a treat for someone who rarely experiences home-baked bread. My ‘boring’ first course? For someone who cooks for themselves and knows how elaborate it is and doesn't just consume it, possibly a change.

The danger of disappointment for no reason

This is the real problem: we disappoint ourselves with things that don't deserve disappointment. We create expectations out of nothing and then fail (this may sound a little exaggerated) in our own castles in the air. It's as if we were writing ourselves a test where the exam questions are invented during the exam - by our harshest inner critic. This kind of self-sabotage is not only unnecessary, it is also unfair. Unfair to the time and effort we have invested. Unfair to the people who have enjoyed our hospitality. And unfair to ourselves, who have created a wonderful experience but are unable to appreciate it ourselves.

What can you do about it?

So the first realisation is simple and straightforward, but not always easy to implement: Accept that a ‘good’ is often more than your own ‘sufficient’. This does not mean throwing your expectations completely overboard, but rather calibrating them realistically. Homemade bread doesn't have to look like it was baked by a professional baker. It has to taste, smell and be made with love. That's it.

Secondly, a conscious change of perspective helps. Not looking through our own hypercritical eyes, but through the eyes of the people we have cooked for. Their enjoyment of the experience is a much more honest yardstick than our self-imposed, often arbitrary standards.

Thirdly - and perhaps most importantly - gratitude for what has been created. For the time I have taken. For the opportunity to entertain people. For the luxury of being able to philosophise about noodles that are too small.

How I deal with it

I try to interrupt myself in moments like these. When I realise that my inner critic is working overtime again, I ask myself: ‘What would my partner or my best friends say about this now?’ Most of the time they would say: ‘You've created a wonderful evening. Stop complaining and enjoy it.’

It's a learning process to break through these automatic judgement patterns. Sometimes you succeed, sometimes you don't. But just being aware of it is a start.

The other side of the coin

Perhaps this dissatisfaction with the status quo is not only negative. It drives us to improve, to try new things, to grow. The problem only arises when it prevents us from appreciating what is already going well. When it turns the motor for improvement into an instrument of self-flagellation.

The trick is to use aspiration as motivation, not as a whipping stick. Season more consciously next time, try a different type of bread, choose larger pasta - but not because the last one was only ‘sufficient’ for you, but because it's fun to experiment and learn.

At the end of the day

Perfection is an illusion. A nice evening with friends, good food and warm conversation - that's real. That is valuable. That is perfect enough. The next invitation is sure to come. And maybe then I'll manage to see the evening through my own eyes for what it is: a gift. Not perfect, but alive. Not flawless, but real. Not like a picture book, but from life.

And that's actually the nicest thing you can say about an evening.

With this in mind: more indulgence with ourselves. More appreciation for the successful. More courage to accept the possibly and quite subjectively imperfect as part of life.

See you next time - for the next experiment in the kitchen and in life.

Yours Jochen, cordially