Finishing a cookbook, or any massive project, really, is terrifying. A few nights ago, after I stayed up too late looking for any remaining last-minute issues, I tossed and turned while Oxford commas and the names of various ground spices bounced around in my head.
I finally woke up from a dream that I skateboarded, belly down, all the way to my parent’s house. I arrived to find that my family had eaten all of the chocolate cake. Dad!
Last night, I reviewed the book for the final time—truly, the last time—to make sure all of my requests had been implemented. I sent it back, fully apprehensive, with my mind full of second-guesses and self-doubt. Did I overdo it on the dog pictures? Are people going to take this book seriously? It’s very colorful. Are the recipes in the order that they should be?
That margarita photo that I was so proud of last year—I want to redo it because the ice cube is out of focus. It’s too late. And the little clock icon isn’t in quite the right place on page 197. Surely they can fix that part. (Update: they fixed it.) Send help, or wine. I’m losing it over here.