"Mise en Place" Pace

My husband and I have different cooking styles. We first realised this in 2019, when, three years into our long distance relationship, we finally landed in the same city. I had just finished law school and he was one year into a recruitment program in his chosen field. Our independent relocations to our nation’s capital meant that we could do more of life’s daily tasks together, like making dinner. 

Alex is quite methodical in his approach. He abides by the mise en place method - a French culinary phrase that means “putting in place” or “gathering” ingredients before beginning to cook. Alex prepares all of his ingredients in advance. He dutifully slices onions, measures spices into ramekins, and opens tins of tomatoes before putting a pan to the flame. He completes his mise en place, making sure that he has everything on hand before he embarks on the cooking itself. It is neat and orderly. 

My approach is more of a juggling act. I read through the recipe and prep ingredients in their order of appearance in the dish’s preparation. I chop the first ingredient while the pan is heating up, and prepare the next ingredient as the first is cooking. Following that trend until each ingredient has been incorporated. This meant that I was cooking and prepping ingredients simultaneously, my mind and hands divided between the two tasks. I was motivated by efficiency. 

When Alex and I started cooking together regularly, I was fresh out of law school where I had been a very dedicated student. Before even starting law school I was encouraged by a former law student to “work smarter not harder”. I was advised that the students who succeed are the ones who adopt efficiencies. Because I was so focused on my education, I ordered my life around my academic success. At the height of my academic success, I made nearly every decision with that end in mind. This made it really difficult to segregate the adages of efficiency to only my academic and professional life. I wanted to succeed, and I had finally been handed a formula, so I applied it generously and legalistically to my every action. 

I was so eager to adopt this formula for success because I thought that, if I succeeded, if I proved myself in this academic forum, I would finally be good enough. I thought that making it to the top of my class would give me an objective marker of success to which I could point to prove my worth. And that if I was finally worthy, finally good enough, I might find love and acceptance. 

The most successful students are the most efficient, I repeated to myself as I strong-armed my way through long nights at the library. Work smarter, not harder, I muttered, convincing myself that my newly refilled water bottle was a satisfying lunch. The truth is, while I tried so hard to prove to the students around me that I was dripping with efficiency, the currency of law school, I wasn’t. Some of my classmates could study for a few hours a day and get straight A’s. Some wouldn’t even take notes at lectures and be at the top of the class. One of the most exceptional students in my cohort walked into open book exams with a single sheet of paper, in stark contrast to the mountain of paper on my desk. 

I did well in law school, but not because I “got it”. Not because I “maximised efficiencies” and “worked smarter” than those around me. I did well because I poured all of my time and energy into succeeding. And I felt really insecure about that. So, out of that insecurity, I tried to project the image for which I was striving. I gave the appearance that I had grasped this golden nugget which was the status symbol within my community. And I extended that charade well-beyond the walls of the university. If anything, I focused more on convincing those outside of my law school bubble of my success. I did this largely by treating every interaction as an opportunity to prove myself. By treating any task as a challenge. I worked hard to implement those efficiencies in my social and personal life to compensate for my failure to be able to do it academically and professionally. I tried to maximise efficiencies and create sequential systems in all of my activities. 

This push for efficiency meant that I rarely did one thing at a time. It also meant that my life had very little peace or silence. I listened to the news as I walked to campus, I watched TV while I was cooking and cleaning, I listened to white noise or instrumental music while I studied, and sleep meditations from the moment my head hit the pillow until I lost consciousness. I told myself that I was being efficient or drowning out external noise. But the noise that I was drowning out wasn’t external. It was internal. At that point in my life, I spent most of my time alone. And alone time was the thing that I most dreaded. Time alone meant time with my thoughts, which were dominated by comparison and self-criticism. So, under the guise of a virtue, of following the roadmap for success that I’d been given, I created a fast-paced life full of noise. And my cooking style was part of that noise. 

When I read a recipe and saw an instruction to let onions or mushrooms cook down for 8 to 10 minutes, I saw 8 to 10 minutes that needed to be filled. So I filled it by preparing other ingredients. By doing all of the steps simultaneously, I subconsciously created the chaos that I felt like I needed. I told myself that it was to succeed, but really I kept up that frantic pace in all activities because it kept the voice telling me that I was lazy and unworthy at bay. 

Alex’s leisurely food preparation infuriated me. His precise measuring spices into small bowls created more dishes. I loathe washing dishes. His approach of doing mise en place before starting to cook meant that he spent more time overall preparing a dish. I wasn’t yet aware that I was trying to run at a pace so that my thoughts couldn’t keep up, so I simply named his approach what I thought it was: inefficient, and took the opportunity to enlighten him. And by “enlighten”, I mean, I likely harshly pointed out how “ineffective” his method was and took charge. And so, with him by my side, either stirring a pan or chopping vegetables, we forged ahead, guided by my superior method. And the wildest thing happened. I became aware of how inefficient my approach truly was.

Having someone else stand by as the onions burned because it took me too long to mince garlic or because I hadn’t yet opened the tinned tomatoes was humbling. I would like to tell you that I am self-reflective enough that that was enough for me to adjust my life. But, my pain was so deep, and I had spent so long shutting it out that I couldn’t even identify that my pain was driving my life. Looking back now, with the benefit of hindsight, therapy, and deeper self-reflection, I can see that Alex’s mise en place pace was an unnerving departure from the pace of life that I had created. His approach of doing one thing at a time allowed space for all of the things that I had been running from - silence, peace, mindfulness. It took me out of the chaos that I had created to protect myself. 

When I look even deeper, I can see that what really frustrated me was that he had grasped something that I hadn’t. He had something that I had learned that I could not have if I wanted to be successful: peace. I wanted success above all because I thought it was the only path with love and acceptance at the end. It led me to strive every moment to prove my worth. He was just making dinner. 

In the five years since those hectic dinners, I’ve learned to adopt more of mise en place pace. I still don’t take my ingredient prep as seriously as my husband does, but I’ve learned to not sacrifice my individuality, peace and joy at the altar of efficiency. The pace of my life was all about earning my worth and avoiding my pain. Those aren’t my drivers anymore. 

In therapy, I’ve learned to engage with rather than run from the critical voice in my head. It means that I no longer seek constant stimulation. In the stillness, I have found the space to assess whether the stereotypical objective measures of success align with my values. I’ve found that billable hours, diplomas, and awe from people far from me fall short. They pale in comparison to the intimacy I’ve found in honest, vulnerable relationships, and the pride that I have in the stronger relationship with myself and those around me, that I could only forge in the time that I’ve given lavishly. 

I’ve found that my self-determined pace pushes back against the adages of finding efficiencies and working smarter, or at least my previous interpretation of them. These propelled me towards a fast paced life wherein I was encouraged to work harder and more efficiently so that I would produce faster, consume more, and enrich others. When I stepped off the treadmill, I was able to see that, and to choose a life where I seek to enrich my soul, my community, and produce for my own fulfilment.

Now I want to make the most of my time by being present in each moment, rather than cramming as much productivity into that moment as I can to feel a sense of worth. I want to be engaged in one task, enthralled with the little things that I miss when splitting my attention. 

I'm not interested in hustling anymore. I want to spend an hour making risotto that we’ll consume for mere moments. I want to peacefully, and with mindful precision, slice mushrooms. I want to stand patiently at the stove as the rice slowly seeps starch to thicken what was once just water, in its own time. I want to notice the nearly imperceptible moment-to-moment changes that can only be observed by an open, single-tracked mind. 

I want to enjoy each process. Be present. Do one thing at a time. 

Some days, that feels out of grasp. Where my head is pounding with noise, my to-do list is full, and my heart weary. On those days, I start by engaging with the noise, and choose to take things one thing at a time. I actively choose to live life at a mise en place pace.