Right, so this whole “roman sur la cuisine” idea, trying to make some grand story out of cooking. I dove into that headfirst, figured I’d document every single family recipe, not just the steps, but the whole history, the feelings, you know, the novel of it all.
I started by talking to my grandma, trying to get all those old stories. I took photos, recorded her voice. Seemed like a good plan. I wanted to capture everything, like the exact way she sighed when the bread wasn’t rising right, or the brand of sugar she swore by back in the day. It was supposed to be this beautiful archive.
But man, it got out of hand. Fast. I was constantly with a notebook. Every meal prep turned into an interrogation. “What are you feeling now, Grandma? Describe the texture!” It became less about cooking together and more about me just… collecting data. The kitchen felt like a lab, not a home. My notes grew into this massive, sprawling thing, but the fun? That just shrunk.
Then came the big holiday dinner. I was so obsessed with getting the “perfect” shot of the roast, jotting down every single comment anyone made, trying to make it all sound like a chapter in my grand food novel. I was running around, scribbling, snapping photos. And guess what? I totally burned the gravy. Beyond saving. And I missed all the real talk, the jokes, the actual family time. My cousin, bless her honesty, just looked at me and said, “Are you trying to write a book or actually be here with us?” Ouch. That hit me hard.
That’s when I realized. This whole “roman sur la cuisine” I was building? It wasn’t really about the food, or the family, or preserving anything meaningful. It was more about my own crazy need to overdo things, to make it some huge project. It was all about me, really.
So, I stopped. Well, mostly. I ditched the massive documentation project. Now, I just write down the important recipes, simple and clear. The real “story,” I figured, is in the eating, the laughing, the actual sharing. Not in some dusty notebook filled with obsessive details. Those notes? They’re probably in a box somewhere, forgotten. Kind of like those big, fancy corporate plans that sound amazing in meetings but are a total pain to actually live with. We’ve all seen those, right? Just a load of hot air.
