Crumbs on the Table
Out of my comfort zone, a special thank you, and a recipe for a late spring fregola dish.
I recently participated in an intensive food writing seminar. My time was jam-packed with insecurity; it was 72 hours of living beyond the boundaries of my comfort zone. I was enduring a diet rich in self-doubt, despair, contempt, humiliation, and anything else the little devil on my shoulder whispered into my ear.
Even thoughts of food contributed to my overall sense of discomfort. I’ve been in these situations before. I knew I had to recalibrate my expectations for eating well during my stay. Those of us who prefer to eat plants generally succumb to the path of least resistance...in other words, roasted vegetables, unseasoned boiled potatoes, and large chunks of tasteless tofu.
The focus of the weekend was writing, and that meant I spent the majority of my time questioning my abilities. I lost count of how many times my mind would suddenly break into “yes, but...” moments. On the other hand, the food part of the weekend turned into a massive surprise, allowing me to gently slip into a state of increased comfort.
I began pursuing a career in writing roughly three years ago. Transforming from an active chef life to a passive writing life has been challenging. My new vocation trapped me between uncomfortable solitude and my ingrained need for order and control. My mind has been a constant, messy cacophony of messages reminding me of every possible insecurity known to humans. I often head to the safe confines of the kitchen to escape – to be in an environment where I know all of my knives and forks remain in the same place.
As time relentlessly moved on, I felt stuck in my internal battles. I knew I had to find a way to negotiate a truce within my mind. I chose to invest time in attending a workshop focused on food writing to directly confront the obstacle standing in my career path.
As the 22 attendees and two instructors gathered on the first evening, the loudspeaker in my mind blared, “What the hell are you doing in this space?” The room was filled with accomplished writers, most of whom had already been published many times over. I felt like a tramp crashing an exclusive food writer’s guild.
My anxieties only increased as I walked into the dining room after the introductions. Everyone appeared comfortable and in their element. People were laughing and sharing stories of their published works. There was a clear connection happening. I kept my distance, fearing I would cause a short circuit in the room.
I was the outsider. I was older than most. I was from a different country (one of only two who traveled from abroad). I was ‘the vegan’ (I later discovered one other in our group). Everything happening in that moment kept feeding my insecurities with cruel precision. I wanted to clutch onto something familiar as a counterbalance. I found myself thinking about the logistics in detail – who needed what, how I would handle the service, and multiple dietary needs. Old habits, I suppose.
I wiggled uncomfortably in my chair as delicious-looking bowls of rigatoni arrived. I was hungry. The long plane and train journey didn’t provide me with any decent dining opportunity; vegans still have limited choices in travel food.
Despite my grumbling stomach, I didn’t expect much at dinner. Past experiences kept reminding me that vegans tend to get served the literal crumbs of a chef's creativity – tasteless food made with the least amount of effort.
My food appeared without fanfare – I wasn’t the first served, or the last. The food just arrived like everyone else’s. I was delighted, even overjoyed, when I looked at the bowl in front of me. It was packed with asparagus, peas (I think), fregola, and a broth that smelled homemade.
Each spoonful tasted fresh, with an occasional welcome burst of mint. Every crunch of perfectly cooked asparagus was balanced—slightly sweet with hints of bitter. The fregola, too, held that authentic al dente bite. That was the sign, I thought, any chef taking the time to add a hint of herbal flavor to surprise and please the diner is a chef that cares. I was getting a secret message from the kitchen telling me to “relax, I’m happy to take care of your needs.
Dessert arrived next. Plates of ruby red strawberries, cream, and thin shortbread biscuits were placed in front of everyone, including me. The server quietly informed me that the cream and biscuits on my plate were vegan. I was, once again, delighted. My plate looked exactly like all of the others. Nothing stood out. My food was not a beacon, signaling to everyone that I was different...an outsider. The simple act of presenting my dish like all the others sent another message from the kitchen. “You are welcome here, and you don’t need to feel like an outsider.”
The first meal removed any anxiety I had about the food I would be served during my weekend stay. It also eliminated the need to think I was any different...or that my food choices were, in any way, out of place.
Meal after meal, snack after snack, I was always presented with delicious options. Most of the time, the food was served family style on platters. Cleverly, the chefs in the kitchen chose to use a technique I’ve endorsed for many years – serve the food in modular components. There were platters of vegan-friendly offerings like salads, stuffed peppers, lentils, and roasted potatoes. The animal-based inclusions, such as cheese and meats, were typically served on separate platters, allowing everyone to make their own choices. Brilliant.
The entire concept and menu planning were designed to ensure that everyone felt comfortable and satisfied, regardless of their unique dietary choices. And I’m happy to report that avocado on toast is just as popular as a sausage roll for breakfast.
The table I ate at all weekend symbolized respect instead of neglect. The food nourished everyone’s body, mind, and soul – even the jittery ones trying to find comfortable ground to stand upon. At the end of the seminar, smiles, laughter, togetherness, understanding, and inclusion were the crumbs left on the table
Special Thanks...
I managed to work through many issues during the weekend. In many ways, my commitment to facing my fears allowed something magical to happen.
Steven Pressfield put it this way in his marvelous book, The War of Art, “A crack appears in the membrane. Like the first craze when a chick pecks at the inside of its shell. Angel midwives congregate around us; they assist as we give birth to ourselves, to that person we were born to be, to the one whose destiny was encoded in our shell, our daimon, our genius.”
Thank you, Mark and Diana, for this workshop. It has helped me crack the shell holding me back and allowed me to safely emerge, take a look around, and find my way.
Follow Mark on Substack to discover more about his writing seminars — and to immerse yourself in some excellent writing. Follow Diana on Instagram to find out what she’s currently working on...or get her latest book.
Thank you, fellow food writers, for allowing me a place at the table. You may never know how much it meant to feel included.
Finally, I would like to extend a special thanks to Joss and Ella, both seasoned food stylists who have worked in the industry for many years. They have compiled impressive resumés...but in my mind, nothing compares to the respect, creativity, and enthusiasm they showed us during this weekend catering to food writers. There was a part of me that wanted to join them in the kitchen – to return to my safe place. But in the end, I’m happy I got out of my way, allowed the weekend to flow...and to simply enjoy some really tasty food!
As a special sign of gratitude and respect for the wonderful food experiences I enjoyed, I decided to recreate the unique flavors of that very first dish of fregola I was served. Though I never asked for the recipe, I used what I remembered to create a version that honors the original – a version I choose to call Fregola di Prima Estate (Fregola of Early Summer). And as any chef will tell you, the biggest compliment ever given is the one that attempts to duplicate a recipe.
Please consider supporting my work through a paid subscription if you can. By contributing a small monthly or annual fee, you can access my recipes, including the one below, as well as my upcoming serialized book project. Your fees help me keep this project alive and ad-free!
Fregola di Prima Estate
Fregola with vegetables is a typical first course offering in Sardinia. It’s simple to prepare – about the same time as it would take you to make a pasta dish – full of flavor and texture, and honestly…just a bit unusual.
Fregola (also known as fregula in Sardinia) is made from strong durum wheat, formed into tiny pellets (similar to couscous, but much larger in size). It is commonly toasted very slowly to give it an unusual chewy texture and sort of a biscuit-like flavor. It is often used in soups and stews and is mainly served as the first course – much like risotto dishes within the Italian mainland.
Fregola con Verdure
I have previously written about Fregola and offered a recipe idea that includes a nod to the typical ratatouille vegetables: eggplant, zucchini, sweet peppers, and tomatoes.
Your Turn at the Table
Have you ever felt like an outsider in a room full of experts? I'd love to hear about a time when unexpected kindness or inclusion turned your day around. Or maybe you're a fellow plant-eater with horror stories (or pleasant surprises) from dining events?
No time? No worries! A quick heart tap below feeds both the algorithm and my ego.
If you feel chatty, hop onto Substack Notes to comment or restack. Even a snippet will do!
Social Media
I’m no longer engaged with Facebook or Instagram. Please follow me on Bluesky to stay connected on social media.
One of the best ways to share your appreciation for my work is to share it with your circle of friends and family or on your social media platforms. While you’re at it, you may also want to consider gifting someone a subscription.
I have to laugh with delight at the irony of writing beautifully about the fear of not writing well...😂❤️👊
It would have been a dream to be sharing that writing workshop with everyone Jack. So wonderful to read your reflections.