![]() ![]() They all looked like they belonged there. I walked into a chaotic scene with very official-looking reporters milling around, yes, some of them in polos, most in teams with very fancy cameras and notepads. I put on my big girl pants (read: ripped jeans) and went, nerves and all. These were the things I worried about.īut I’m old enough and mature (AHEM) enough to not let these fears keep me from acting. These were all the questions that kept me up the night before the interview. Plus, if I’m not sticking my phone out there to record the conversation, what do I do with my hands? Surely this famous chef would see that I’m just amateur-ville playing at this whole food writer game? Right? I’d stick out like a sore thumb among the other well-poloed reporters who know what they’re doing. It felt rushed and official and, for me, very uncomfortable. This was a 20-minute time slot orchestrated by a PR team with press restrictions and lots of other reporters hanging around waiting their turn. It wasn’t an open-ended conversation with a local chef. Foodies are foodies because of this connection between their heart and their food and I want to make that for the readers too.Īnd this has worked really well for every interview I’ve done so far. I want to connect the person to the food to the restaurant and draw that line so well that every reader in our little town feels connected to their dream in a very personal way. I am fascinated by the person, by their why. End goal.īecause I could not care less about the other stuff. I want to learn about the person behind the food. Instead, I roll up in my uniform (t-shirt, jeans and a leather jacket if you must know) with one goal: to have a conversation. I don’t ask real questions because they are boring and I typically don’t even go in with a plan. I don’t record conversations (because that seems weird and this is not Watergate) and I would rather poke my own eye out than wear a logo polo shirt. ![]() I am not taking artsy food shots or posing with my food without looking awkward. If you know me in real life, this is probably no surprise. And real food reporters ask questions, actual questions, about the food and the business and the restaurant. For sure.īecause real food writers have fancy cameras and take arsty shots and use their phones as recording devices and wear logoed polo shirts and newspaper nametags. Because I was firmly, albeit subconsciously, convinced that I was a complete imposter of a food writer and for sure when interviewing a famous celebrity chef who has been interviewed all over by real (and not fake) food writers I would be exposed. Wikipedia (that font of always accurate internet knowledge) defines it like this:Ī psychological pattern in which one doubts one’s accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a “fraud”Īnd this, my friends, is exactly why I was freaking out. The actual source was a major case of Imposter Syndrome. So that wasn’t the source of my middle of the night waking, stomach-churning anxiety either. They eat peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon, leave the toilet seat up and generally annoy their spouse. They’re just like you and me, those famous people. But celebrity just doesn’t do much for me. I mean, I love me some Marky Mark and, being of the Teen Beat generation, am also a card-carrying member of the NKOTB Fan Club. It also wasn’t because he has uber-famous brothers. I don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, but I never watched the show so I didn’t have a Fan Girl vibe. It wasn’t because he is a reality show star. I didn’t freak out for the reasons most people would expect. Which is why, when I was given the opportunity to interview Paul Wahlberg of Wahlburgers for my Lifestyle Frisco gig, it was odd for me to freak the heck out. I don’t get cold sweats and for the most part, the things that make a lot of people freak out, like public speaking, don’t really make me flinch. ![]() I don’t stay up at night worrying about things that are way beyond my control or irrational. Yes, I worry about the normal things like my kids, my grey hairs (courtesy of my kids) and what I’m going to eat for dinner. ![]()
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