I’ve realized, as of right now, that I must always, always trust my instincts in the kitchen, if not in life itself.

I need to trust in my instincts, and in my abilities; as for the latter, I tend to doubt my abilities more often than not— which only leads to a frazzled, panicked sort of cooking style that is inevitably a self-fulfilling prophecy. So, in short, I served a pretty lame sandwich to my friend who came over yesterday. (If you already know how I feel about sandwiches, you will know this is a capital offense. For those of you who don’t know: I adore sandwiches. And I rock at making them.)

I could feel down to my tippy toes that it was missing something, and I came up with these clever sides that were to serve as a balancing act, but obviously that simply doesn’t work: a sandwich is a dish in itself, and the sides aren’t going to make up for its own lacking. Rachel enjoyed it well enough, but a dark cloud hung over my head. A bad sandwich cloud.

The moral of the story here, as ever, is to keep it simple and trust in yourself. I’ve realized, after having friends over for meals a fair few times now, that I was always somewhat frantic— trying desperately not only to please, but to impress. Not only did I second-guess my ability to make whatever it was I was to serve, but I also questioned the validity of serving my favorite dishes, the ones I felt most comfortable making. I questioned them as too simple, which is just silly.

Case in point: the salad that I am currently obsessed with, which was requested about five times by my mom while she was staying with me; mixed greens with radishes, a medium boiled egg, and vinaigrette, varying on parsley vs. cilantro, the additions of shaved asparagus or ripe avocado or pecorino. Each time I made it, I felt happy and relaxed while composing it; each time, I was both proud of it and pleased to eat it upon completion.

That’s the kind of food I should always be making for the people I care about.

Another dinner for the family was scrambled eggs with marjoram, sauteed green garlic, and fried salami with crusty baguette to go around. And it was perfect.

Then there was a sandwich that was really quite good; I made it for lunch the other day on a decent baguette: herbed parmesan butter (tops European butter banged around in a mortar & pestle with finely grated parmesan, chopped parsley, and a pinch of salt), radish, salami, medium boiled egg, tender baby lettuce, dijon, and a bit of olive oil.

(Radishes go so well with eggs.)

So. Now my mind is settling down— right into the residual torrent of dust and dirt it kicked up in a panic over bad sandwiches and failed desserts and all the frenzied banging around of a fledgling cook. It’s getting comfy there. I feel, now I’ve gotten all dirty and greasy and stressed out from the experience, that I’ve reached a new chapter in the kitchen— and, one hopes, my life. One in which I stop worrying so much about what other people think, and trust my instincts.

It’s going to be pretty damn lovely.