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I’ve been in a funk lately, a malaise. For weeks I’d attributed it to the exhaustion of being on a book tour for months on end. I knew that focusing so hard on making Duck, Duck, Goose as successful as I could would naturally sap my strength to cook, write and to make Hunter Angler Gardener Cook as good a website as I can possibly make it.
But I’ve been home more than a week now, sitting quietly, and I know there is something else at work. The realization began to creep over me as I was catching up on other websites and reading colleagues’ cookbooks. It solidified when I thought of all the amazing food I’d eaten at my book dinners over the course of those four months. Clear-eyed and cold, I sit here with the stark realization that I am simply not that good.
Maybe it’s just age talking. As we grow older all of us begin to test the limits of our abilities. Our world narrows. The stars we shot for so long ago seem even farther away. It used to be that I could see a chef on TV perform some act of culinary prestidigitation and glibly comment that I could do that, given some time. Now, having seen in person real chefs perform real feats of magic in the kitchen, I am no longer so sure.
In Austin, I had all the time in the world to think about a dish to serve at the finale of my book tour, and all the time and equipment I needed to cook it. I made a German giblet soup called ganseklein, served it with acorn spaetzle, and drizzled a little Austrian pumpkinseed oil over each plate at service. It was a lovely dish. But I’d be a braggart and a liar if I did not say that my friend Jesse Griffiths, who made a German duck kasekrainer sausage with sprouted wheat, pickled radish and homemade mustard, did not blow my dish from the water.
Even in my wheelhouse I was bested. And this was not the only time it has happened. I am not being overly prideful here. I’m not hurt that professional chefs have cooked better duck dishes than I have: I am ashamed of myself for lacking the imagination and ability to either conceive of or execute some of their dishes. In their collective shadow, I’ve been proven to be a competent cook, but nothing more. My knives should be sharper. I need to become a more skilled baker. I ought to be better at sous vide. At desserts. At plating food. At the simple act of cooking beans.
The raw fact is that the exigencies of running this website pull me in so many competing directions I find that I have become the proverbial jack of all trades and master of none. I am a good forager but I know better. I am only an average hunter, and a somewhat better-than-average angler. I can break down animals and fish with the best of them, but even in this realm I know there is a lifetime’s worth of knowledge I have yet to master. Same goes for the act of roasting birds, or searing fish or making ice cream.
It is also a fact that I must earn my living from this website. To do that, I know that most people come here looking for recipes for things like venison chili or roast pheasant or salmon chowder. This is the sort of recipe that quite literally pays the bills, and I honestly enjoy making and eating them. But for every such classic I post on this site, I feel an equal need to create original dishes like Oyster! Oyster! Oyster! or The White Sturgeon or Dessert from the Mountain. In many ways this push-pull of the everyday and the esoteric are what make HAGC as fun as it is to create — and I hope to read.
Several years ago I wrote an essay called A Restless Craftsman. In essence the piece was about me trying to elevate the craft of cooking to an art. I am over that now. Art has become, at least for me, something unattainable in food — fancy plating and odd ingredients do not art make. Art moves the mind, sends it to higher places. Food simply cannot do that. Food can entertain, amuse, divert and even alarm. But can food spark someone to sit back and contemplate greater human truths? I doubt it.
Writing, however, can. A reporter asked me recently what, of all the skills I possess, do I consider that I am best at? Writing was the easy answer. I’ve written for publication virtually every week for 22 years. If there is any real art in anything I’ve ever done with this odd, meandering life of mine, it lies within the written word. Yet even in this realm I feel flat.
Which is why I am writing you this letter, dear readers.
I am still a restless craftsman. Only now I am hoping to renew and restore my love of the crafts I have chosen to pursue: Hunting, foraging, angling. Butchering, cooking and yes, writing. I spent almost the entirety of last year as a public person. I drove nearly 30,000 miles to and from events, traveled to 45 states, did scores of media interviews and talked with literally thousands of people. By the end I felt like a caricature of myself, and I began to hate the sound of my own voice. I will not do this in 2014.
I have found my limits, and they are humbling. Depressing, even. But they are only my limits today. Today I will learn something new, in the field, on the water, in the kitchen or at my keyboard. Today I will become better than I was yesterday. And tomorrow I will get up and do it again.
This is my vow to you. I hope you stay with me for the journey.
Hank – I think you are a neat guy. A guy I’d hunt with and learn from, only one of these hasn’t yet happened. Thanks for the inspiration, which is much more important than pulling off the “best” wild game recipe.
Without your website, I never would have thought of, much less tried squirrel confit.
I have begun to feel in recent years that the best writing rings of a clear-eyed truth-telling.
This essay certainly rings of that truth.
You’re doing great work. keep it up. all of it.
There is so much I’d like to say, but I’ll be brief. First, thank you. You have changed my life and for that I am grateful. Yours is the only website I check daily. I have a freezer full of wild game and aside from pork and the occasional ocean fish I don’t buy meat anymore. I’ve become a better cook and a more responsible consumer. I’m excited to go into the wild world and find out what I can bring back and prepare for my family. These things I owe directly to you.
You may not be able to compete on the same stage with the best chefs in the world, but nobody is asking you to. I would simply ask that you continue to be yourself and if you choose, allow us to follow along on your ride.
Fantastic read. I appreciate your ability to open up and be honest with yourself and your readers, and your willingness to continue with the journey. Love your site and your efforts.
I think it’s pretty common for creative folks to have such feelings and thoughts soon after struggling with and creating an original work.
I saw you on Meat Eater and wanted to check out the site. Just keep knocking off one thing at a time. Your limits make me want to find my own.
I liked this post because of the awareness within it. I won’t say “don’t feel bad.” Feel what you feel because that’s where your insight to refuel and recharge vines from. Sit with it. New things will emerge. I will gladly follow on this journey. It strikes me as very interesting as a writer who had felt the humility and discouragement you wrote about. Thank you. I enjoy your approach and your web but this seems like a good direction for pushing forward. Peace.
Look, anyone that reaffirms Steven Rinella’s faith that jackrabbit is suitable for eating clearly knows what he is doing.
Greatly enjoy the blog, books, and what you are doing. Keep up the great work. As I read the post, a great dread came over me that you were about to end the blog. So happy that is not the case.
Great write-up on a well-known topic that everyone can understand to some degree. I believe the way of it is to seek, learn, and share. After sharing, the cycle repeats itself: seek, learn, and after that we’ll be here to learn from your sharing.
When I make a meal of wild game that I have taken it is far from a trivial thing. It is often the result of a trip of over a thousand miles and several days in the marsh, field or woods. I can’t just go the local supermarket and replace the main course if something goes wrong. When I need a recipe you are my source, and I think many, many others will say the same. So, from one hunter and fisher to another, keep on!
Mr. Shaw,
1st off I think you are a treasure. You are exactlty the wide ranging curious, experienced voice we need these days and at the same time there’s a timeless quality to the wide ranging smarts you share. This is how folks used to live. As young chefs we were all caught up in “blowing people away” with our food, Blowing their minds, creating Killer Dishes and the like. My teacher an old French master once responded to my naïve question as to whether or not he was the best chef in town, he replied, “I have to believe so, or I couldn’t come to work” He was, and still is a great chef, still at the fire at 73 years old. He lied about his age at 14 and wound up cooking in the French Foreign Legion/Cavalry in Algeria. But he’s not “the best chef in town”, nobody is Every dog has his day. If you’ll forgive me, I think you’re paying attention to the trivial and fictional aspect of “being the best”, in this age of Cooking as Sport, where losers are sent home packing, voted off the show, tasked with the silliness by the likes of a screaming chef/TV host to create a “signature dish” in 45 minutes. Where every Tom Dick and Harry shoot instagrams of their plate and deem it “amaaaazing”
the pitfalls of competition, being the best, winning, are all rather pointless. You are an eye opening, engaging, wide eyed joy. Get off the nonsense of being bested by someone, who cares? Keep doing what you’re doing. We need you, if for no other reason than you’ve taught me some great insights into making octopus.
Yours,
David Vos
Hank you are an absolute stud! You make a lot of people real happy and inspire many. Keep on keeping on and give yourself some credit. Thank you JJ
Hank…I admire your insightful and meta cognitive writing here, but disagree that you need to change or move in any other direction. Your focused, yet diverse palate makes you very unique in the blog-o-sphere and is probably the reason why so many people admire and appreciate your work. Being really good at one thing, to me, is not preferable to having an ability to do myriad things well. Variety is the spice of life…enjoy it!
Hank,
You are a very talented writer and I am thankful that you share your vast knowledge of food and food preparation so generously. Reading your articles and cookbooks has changed the way I eat and added so much enjoyment to hunting, fishing, gardening and cooking. I am very thankful for that. Take care and don’t strive to be perfect…none of us are.
Bruce Hood, Ottawa
Good Post. At the end of the day there is nothing wrong with being a jack of all trades and master of none! It is the very act of attainability in what you do that interests people. If it was so masterful that none of us could approach it then we would not try it and we would get bored and not come back.
I have had this discussion with myself several years ago and have come to the conclusion that I am happy being a jack of all trades. Some I am better at, some average, but at the end of the day being across so many disciplines makes me happy as I am learning and trying new things, being inspired by the things I see by the people like yourself to do these new things.
At some point I may see something I wish to master for now the act of learning and doing new things is more than enough for me and I thank you for some of the best doses of inspiration I get some days.
“Specialization IS for insects”, I’ve held that motto for over 40 years. Just now was reminded of where it comes from. Perfection is not heavenly, heaven is here in a magnificent body that is decaying as we speak while entwined with a mind that can conceive of godly things. Knowing how to raise and forage the ingredients with which to make great meals while sharing great thoughts, homemade music and art with friends and loved ones is Mankind’s greatest destiny. While you are reflecting on your limitations and horizons go read or re-read Michael Pollan’s book “Cooked”. Being a truly conscious and authentic human being means living on the razor’s edge between the hope of what we can be and acceptance of who we are. Because you are one, you are a much respected writer, teacher and friend to many. Thank you.
Great post, Hank. This post prompted me to tell you everyone who does this writing-cooking thing – everyone who is good, anyway — understands the feeling.
Reading this reminded me of a Nietzsche quote:
To those human beings who are of any concern to me I wish suffering, desolation, sickness, ill-treatment, indignities–I wish that they should not remain unfamiliar with profound self-contempt, the torture of self-mistrust, the wretchedness of the vanquished: I have no pity for them, because I wish them the only thing that can prove today whether one is worth anything or not–that one endures.
Pretty depressing, but secretly inspiring – the space you wrote this post from is rich! We all end up here, and our strength comes from looking this stuff in the eye – not making up stories to rationalize it or opting out of our chosen path. Sounds like you’re face to face with this one. My blessing: may you never reach the top of the mountain.
Hank,
I can not attest to how many chefs, anglers, or hunters are out there who are better than you. I’m sure there are many. What I can attest to is that none of those people have inspired me to be a better hunter/angler/gardener/cook. Last night I spent a few hours painstakingly breaking down a batch of cottontails that I will be making recipes with later this week. Reading your blog and your books has led me to have a sense of pride in the game I harvest and how it is prepared. And for that, I (and my girlfriend) thank you.
“Today I will learn something new, in the field, on the water, in the kitchen or at my keyboard. Today I will become better than I was yesterday. And tomorrow I will get up and do it again.” I hope you will add to this statement “and find joy in the process”. There is always someone better than we are at any given thing. There is always someone worse. What makes the journey worth while is the reaching out and sharing, the willingness to be vulnerable, and knowing that while you may not be the very best at everything you do, that you made your very best effort, with humility and enthusiasm. I would guess that I would enjoy a basic meal across the table with you more than I would with a gourmet meal across the table from most master chefs, who often possess formidable skills and a formidable ego to go along with them. It’s not “are you a master chef, or hunter, or angler or gardener”, its “are you an enthusiastic and engaging chef, hunter, angler or gardener”. And you are that! And your Chilindron Stew recipe has become a go to winter staple in this house!