For a long time, I thought that was the only way to cook. As a food writer and recipe developer, I have spent countless hours testing the elasticity of pizza dough, measuring the exact grams of sugar needed to achieve a "crunch without the shatter," and debating the merits of a 350°F vs. 375°F oven.

How could I create recipes for a living if my own stove was lying to me? I remember the exact moment I let go. I was making a simple summer squash galette. The recipe (one I had written myself) called for a "flaky, laminated-esque dough." But my kitchen was 85 degrees. The butter melted into the flour before I could even roll it out. The dough tore. The zucchini wept.

I want you to feel powerful in your kitchen, not intimidated by it. If you only take one thing from this post, let it be this:

Go burn the garlic toast. Over-knead the bread. Use the pre-shredded cheese.

In the old days, I would have thrown it in the trash and ordered sushi.

There’s a specific kind of anxiety that comes with holding a whisk in a perfectly lit kitchen. You know the one. The counter is marble, the Mise en place is in tiny glass bowls, and the recipe demands you chill the dough for exactly 47 minutes.

Instead, I cursed, folded the torn dough over itself like a calzone, shoved it in the hot oven, and set a timer for "whatever."