I make entirely fine scrambled eggs. Not the best, not the worst. They do their job; they get by.
I prefer them to any eggs I've eaten at a buffet, but would I serve them to Amanda and Merrill? No. And do most of my colleagues make scrambled eggs better than I do? I'm sure.
I know the tricks, hacks, tips, and techniques to make them so light they'll fly away (poach-scramble) or so creamy that they fall into large, slick curds (mascarpone, crème fraîche, cream). I know to pre-salt the scrambled eggs and let them sit, to add yogurt or sour cream or cornstarch or plenty of butter and cheese. (I even know how to make them in the microwave.)
And these tidbits aren't "secrets" at all: Google "scrambled eggs" and, after a few basic "how to make scrambled eggs" posts, you'll see articles titled "Perfect Scrambled Eggs" and "How to Make Perfectly Fluffy Scrambled Eggs" and "How to Make the Absolute Best Scrambled Eggs Ever."
Enough already, I find myself thinking: I don't want the best eggs. I'm happy with these slightly good ones.
Judging by the superlative-heavy headlines—many of which I use myself, all the time—we don't want good enough. We want what's best. And that feeling of constant striving, reaching, pushing, searching, stretching, never settling is exhausting and exhaustive: We don't want good pasta in New York—we want the best pasta in New York; we don't want a good deal—we want the best deal. If it's not the best, we don't want it at all. Because when you have everything you need, when you can get most of what you want, the next phase is to desire those things to be the very best—to exceed, not just satisfy, the desire.
I'd argue that this need—to be the best and have the best—is a privileged one, particularly acute and complicated when it comes to cooking. We don't all want to be the best swimmers or yodelers or ceramicists: But shouldn't each of us want to be as good a cook as possible? It's a skill that defines our species and, thereby, our competency as humans. In Emma Straub's new novel Modern Lovers, her character Elizabeth describes the feeling of inadequacy well:
Whenever she dropped by Zoe's house for lunch, one of the three of them would be eating some bowlful of brown rice and hard-boiled egg and sautéed kale, with an avocado-miso dressing that they'd just whipped up. [...] It wasn't easy to have a best friend who seemed so much better at so many of life's most important skills.
The constant bombardment of ways to be a better cook is inspiring until it's paralyzing, until the pressure of making each meal the best it can be gets tiresome—and starts to feel silly. Because the push to make everything the best way possible not only makes me feel bad about my own skills (in the kitchen, in life), but it can also distract me from what I think is important about cooking in the first place: to have respect for food and an understanding of where it comes from; to bring yourself and others happiness. I'm not surrendering to mediocrity, but making a note to myself to reprioritize from time to time.
My dad, a non-cook whose cooking advice I collected for Father's Day, makes very boring food, and he would admit it. But when I asked him if he would improve his skills if he could, he said that he was satisfied, that what he did was sufficient for now. In this best-obsessed world we're treading in, it was refreshing—not disheartening—to hear that he didn't share the ambitions all of these headlines assume us to have. My dad's priorities lie elsewhere: in his profession, in his other hobbies. As is true for so many people in the world, who eat to fulfill a biological need, who cook to feed their families, who are happy with eggs whether they're the best or not. Working at a food website among the food obsessed, I too often forget this.
And I also forget that food doesn't have to be its best to be its most enjoyable: You know this if you've gone backpacking, if you'd choose your grandma's blueberry pie above all others.
So after I cook eggs in a double boiler once, I know that the next time I'll go back to exactly what I was doing before. It's not the best, but it's good enough for me.
Written by: Sarah Jampel
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25 Comments
You're right, this seems to be more of a privileged white American thing. "My blueberry pie photo got 260 likes on Instagram which means I am awesome." I don't grasp that mentality very well. How many of those 260 people will consume a slice of that pie?
If you are cooking for yourself, there is only one judge: you. As soon as you start feeding someone else, this gets more complicated.
The reason why no one can answer Sarah's original post is because she gives zero context about the evaluation situation.
The question is innately unanswerable due to its delivery.
As they say, comparison is the thief of joy. You are you and that is good enough. <3
It's the same thing with almost anything you do in life, whether it's raising a child, parallel parking, making your bed, or writing an Internet article.
If your bed made nice enough to be on the cover of some fancy magazine? Your child doesn't win the Nobel Prize, Wimbledon, the Super Bowl, a Grammy, isn't principal ballerina of the American Ballet Theatre, etc. Are you a failure as a parent? Is this article going to win a Pulitzer and if it doesn't will you ever write again?
Does any artist really think his/her creation is perfect? That there are no flaws? Is it good enough to exhibit? Good enough to dedicate to someone special? Good enough to sell? Good enough to copy and sell again? Good enough to be hidden in some secret trove?
Terms like "the best" or "good enough" are subjective. The question is who is doing the judging and how much you care about their ruling.
I think people who are constantly striving improve end up making the world a better place because they set expectations higher, whether it be parenting, governing, creating, nurturing, healing, etc.
What a terrible world this place if we didn't have dreamers who wanted a better place.
Some people want to cook tasty food. Some people want to create really pretty dishes. Some people just want to use the two pounds of butter in their fridge before they move. Some people want to use the dregs of their mustard jar so they can move onto a fresh jar. Some people will cook something just so they have something they can write about because they'd rather write about cooking versus just cooking. Some people like cooking for other people so much they make it into a career. Some people like cooking only for immediate family members and a handful of friends. Some people would rather not cook and prefer to have someone else prepare meals for them.
If some person is telling you to be the best possible cook and it's bothering you, maybe you should find someone else who has different hopes and expectations for you. If that person and you are one and the same, then you have a real problem.
You aren't a valid judge, you need to follow laws and the meter maid/cop will decide if you have correctly parallel parked.
Here's a different analogy, better. What shoes are you wearing? If you employer has a casual dress code, maybe you are probably wearing something that satisfies you, rather than something that must fall under certain guidelines. Heels? Sandals? Birkenstocks? Wood clogs? Sneakers? Combat boots?
As some of us grow older, we look around and try to figure out if we've done enough good ourselves, whether we instilled the same interest/ethnic/vision in those who come after us, whether it be cooking, woodworking, playing a musical instrument, writing laws, raising offspring to be a self-sufficient adults, playing baseball or pretty much anything any human does.
This is a symptom of privilege and over abundance, turning food into competition. Much of it driven by the internet which in its turn is driven for fresh content every day. Maybe not on cooking sites but I see total drivel dished out in other areas because of the need for daily fresh content. I agree that always having to be or have the best is exhausting and self-defeating. Sometimes “good enough” is indeed good enough.
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