How Cookbook Writing Has Changed Me

I do not remember what life was like before

Sometimes when people ask how old I am, I give an age that’s three or four years younger than I actually am—not on purpose, but because that’s when I started writing my first cookbook, and something in my brain chemistry never fully recovered. I’m not the same person I was before.

Landing that first cookbook deal—which took years, thanks to my relatively modest platform—came with an immense weight. I didn’t take the assignment lightly.

We now live in a world where being a competent writer and thorough researcher doesn’t guarantee job security—or even visibility. As a journalist by trade, with little desire to plaster my face across my feed, I knew Made In Taiwan might be my only shot at writing a book. So I poured a large chunk of my advance into hiring a team to help me. Even with that support—and an in-house Taiwanese recipe developer who answered all my questions—I obsessed over every recipe, testing some so many times that just looking at them now makes me gag. There are Taiwanese staples I once adored—like savory rice pudding and kueh—that I can’t eat without feeling queasy.

Two years after publication, there are still recipes I wish I could tweak, redo, or rip out entirely. But what’s on the page is on the page. That’s the nature of print.

In the middle of all this, I got pregnant and had a child—born the same week the book came out—a seismic shift that carved a hard line between life before the book and everything that followed.

Next week is the photoshoot for my second cookbook, and I am stressed out of my mind. Grateful, absolutely. Writing a physical book is still one of the most fulfilling things I’ve ever done, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. But while I have a few more months to finish the essays and finesse the recipes, the photoshoot locks in the menu. If I want to change anything—like the cut of the tofu in my stir-fry or whether the pork gets bathed in sauce or just kissed with a drizzle—I need to decide now.

The first time around, I was more prepared. Mostly because I wasn’t a mother yet and could work on the manuscript from 9 a.m. to 11 p.m. My husband didn’t mind; he knows how obsessive I get. This time… life is louder, and most of my free time belongs to my son.

Being a published author is an immense privilege—one I probably take too seriously. But I chalk that up to knowing how hard it is to get a book deal, to be published at all, or to have your voice heard in a media landscape that tends to reward vibes over substance.

I also know that readers who buy a cookbook—and actually cook from it—expect recipes that work. That’s especially true if you're a sleep-deprived mom with a newborn, which just so happens to be the audience I’m writing for now.

Last week, I scrapped one of the many dessert soups in my manuscript and decided to replace it with a spiced brownie. That decision alone took hours of back-and-forth texts with my assistant. I have too many sweet soups. Americans like baked goods. I hate developing baked goods.

My assistant gave it a go. My Chinese herbalist–slash–recipe developer took three stabs at it. And today, I spent six straight hours baking three different versions of that one damn brownie.

I think—I hope—I finally nailed it. I just sliced off a piece, wrapped it up, and sent it to one of my American mom friends (a former dessert caterer) for a gut check. I'm covered in chocolate. My stomach hurts from butter overload.

My second book comes out next fall. Until then, I’m pouring whatever energy and sanity I have left into making sure I put out the best version of it I can muster.

Wish me luck at the photoshoot next week. God knows I’ll need it.