“Is there anything different about me, now that we’re living together?” This spring, my partner and I found a cute apartment and decided to take the leap. As we both adjust to our new circumstances, I’ve been ruminating on whether our dynamics have changed.

“Yes, you care a lot about midcentury modern furniture now.” I turned forty this summer, and if I’m being frank, this is the first time I’ve put any conscious effort into imagining and curating a living space. My last apartment was little more than a commercial kitchen with a Corona mirror on the wall and a bed in the corner. In a Johnny Appleseed-like existence, living arrangements are temporary, the furnishings nothing more than a matter of convenience. Cost-benefit analysis and minimum viable product, to translate my attitude into economic terms.

What I’ve discovered is this: interior design is hard. It’s not that I have no preferences. If presented with two distinct options for a dresser, I can choose the one I prefer. That’s not the same as the advanced skillset, which is looking at an empty corner and imagining what dresser should live there. That requires experience. More specifically, it requires having a multitude of examples at your fingertips so you can run through some test cases. So much of creativity in a professional capacity is just knowing your options.

It’s the same for cooking. This week we’re serving a zucchini tempura with tomato chutney. Each month, Mac and I make a broad plan for the menu. We call them internal directives (how’s that for corporate jargon). It usually starts with a produce list. September is the middle of red season (as opposed to brown season and green season), so we’ve got tomatoes, corn, peppers, eggplant, and stone fruit at the top of the list.

Okay, so we’ve got tomatoes. What now? The answer is not conjuring a compelling recipe out of thin air. That’s being a wizard. Being a professional means having worked in enough kitchens, absorbed enough mentors, made enough tomato components, read enough books, to guide the research process. “These tomatoes are overripe. Maybe I’ll make a sauce. How about a jam or chutney?” One of the pleasures of reaching the second year of Aster Pantry is seeing it grow comprehensive enough to reflect our style. I just searched the website and discovered that we have at least ten recipes featuring tomatoes.

But the time for research must end. Eventually you have to close TikTok, clear your head, and think for yourself. I’m certainly prone to paralysis from excessive research. These days I write my menus in two stages. I write a rough draft, then go for a run or something, then return to it. Without fail, I discover that the rough draft is overwrought. I simplify, refocus on what actually sounds good to eat rather than what sounds cheffy, and I get to work.

Strong voices are subconscious. That’s not the same as unpracticed. The more I practice cooking, the less I cast about wildly for the exotic and the undiscovered. On my best days, I am able to trust that the answers are right in front of me, that I have enough examples rolling around in the bottom of the toolbox to let my subconscious do the work.

We’re glad you’re cooking with us.

Cheers,

Sten and Mac