We do it for the love…right?
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<br />That’s why we wake up at odd hours of the morning to start marinating something delicious and dead, or stay up late to get those damned little silvery ball things to look just right on top of your red velvet cupcakes (spoiler: they’ll never look right, because it’s 2014 and red velvet cupcakes are tired as hell). We do it because we love cooking, because we’ve had it in our blood since grandma’s grandma’s grandma made soup for some poor saps in the Crimean War, because one day we dream of owning a cupcake shop that famous people talk about on twitter or instagram or whatever the hell famous people use to talk about cupcakes.
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<br />Or we’re all just liars, which is exactly what I think.
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<br />I think all that lovely Hallmark channel crap up there isn’t the deep motivation for all things chef-ly we feel in our “hearts”; I think it’s the stories we tell each other (and ourselves) as a soothing balm for the truth: we do it because we like having our egos stroked. Sure, we’ll semi-consciously hear you tell us how good our stuff is and “aw, shucks” our way around the kitchen table while you do it. But deep down all we’re thinking is “yeah, you’re damn right that pie is the most delicious thing you’ve ever had, SAY IT AGAIN” on loop.
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<br />Sorry to burst your no doubt frosting-coated bubble, but we don’t do it to feed you. We do it to feed us. Making something people like is easy. 9 times out of 10 you make something with sugar and bacon in it, and they’ll flock to it like it’s a pork-filled baseball stadium being summoned to the earth by James Earl Jones (that’s roughly what Field of Dreams is about, right?). But getting those elusive, tasty morsels of self-satisfying praise? The egotistical equivalent of roasted pork belly and chocolate cake?
<br />That’s why we really do it. And anyone who says otherwise is a liar, to put it in Princess Bride terms.
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<br />Now feed me.
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