Having grated the pecorino — more than enough for two portions — I waited for the starchy water I had drawn out from the boiling pasta to cool. Then, as I saw the Italian chef I follow on TikTok doing, I gradually ladled in a little at a time, using a fork to mix the grated sheep milk cheese until it was creamy. Precisely then, my partner returned with our youngest. I should have followed the chef’s instructions — drain and add the pasta into a bowl with the pecorino. Instead, flustered by the impatient whining of our hungry six-month-old as well as my own hunger levels, I ended up adding some starchy water to the pan I had used to roast the peppercorns to enhance their fragrance when powdered. I didn’t account for residual heat from the pan’s surface, combined with the temperature of the starchy water I added alongside the drained pasta. I added the pecorino cream to the pasta instead of the other way around. The sauce turned soupy, and the cheese achieved the consistency of mozzarella. Yet again, I managed to ruin the cacio e pepe.
I felt devastated. It takes time to grate pecorino — a hardier cheese than parmesan. What a waste, I thought, as I was forced to eat this soggy drudge, which I also served my partner, because it was too late to cook anything else. I had been defeated once again by the combined pressures of home office and parenting. I couldn’t mask the feeling of shame as I apologised to my partner for this blunder. He was, as always, extremely kind. ‘We’re still eating it,’ he said. ‘Not enthusiastically,’ I said, wishing I could use the pretend time machine I sometimes use when our toddler wishes he could have done something independently that we may have mistakenly done for him instead. Unsatisfied with my meal, I fried an egg along with bacon and heated up the rattlesnake beans I had made the day before, braised in a lemon and garlic sauce. I then had a salad with avocado, orange date tomatoes, pine nuts, and crisp salad leaves with a classic Italian dressing of olive oil, balsamic, pepper, and salt.
Lately, I’ve felt overwhelmed by failure, until I realised what I had lost was perspective. I wasn’t failing; I was simply setting unrealistic expectations for myself, both on the work and the home front. If I were another person, I would have sat me down and given a lecture on the impossibility of doing it all. I would have told myself that eating nourishing food was more important than cooking perfect meals, or that it was okay to leave a few dirty dishes in the kitchen sink for an hour or two so that I could make the most of the sunshine and take a timely walk outdoors. I had to explain to my boss that the recent increase in our team’s combined workload had left me feeling like I was failing until I finally realised I was expecting to do too much in a single day. My goals were unrealistic. I was functioning as if I had a robust support system and didn’t have to also manage a household. When she called to discuss her strategy for allotting work in the future, I told her that I would have to make my peace with being slower with everything and taking my time. ‘I realise I am not a machine,’ I told her. She laughed because, as editors, we frequently joke about the not-so-distant future when our jobs will be taken over by AI. For the moment, we have the security of knowing that the level of care, attention, and diligence we assign to our work cannot be offered by AI. I love that she cared enough to talk to each and every member of our team to ensure none of us were feeling burned out.
Three days ago, I came upon a tutorial for making a lantern out of baking paper and autumn leaves. It looked easy enough to replicate with my three-and-a-half-year-old. It’s the season for making lanterns in Northern Europe, because in mid-November we celebrate the feast of Saint Martin. On this day, because it is already dark by 5 pm, kids make processions holding lanterns. Although he would be making one in kindergarten, I loved the idea of us crafting one together. We took a bucket and went to the church yard to pick a range of leaves, which we then stuck to a sheet of wax paper. I didn’t have the required card paper to make the borders, so I improvised with masking tape. He used crayons to colour it a bit, and I succeeded in making a haphazard lantern. I couldn’t take my eyes off its flaws, but I reminded myself that was not the point. When we took the lantern home, we put it around the thick candle we were gifted by the church at a mass celebrating milestone wedding anniversaries (we solemnised our marriage in church exactly five years ago). We turned off all the lights and watched the dried leaves get animated by the glow of the light. ‘How beautiful,’ Josef said. By the warmth of this flame, I made a promise to myself to relinquish the futile pursuit of perfectionism and to truly embrace failure with the comforting knowledge that it didn’t impact my sense of self-worth. After all, it is our flaws that make us so
preciously human.
Deliberating on the life and times of every woman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She posts @rosad1985 on Instagram
Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com
The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper.