I have long boasted of my ability to keep my head on straight under pressure. Exposed to the dining room by an aggressively open kitchen, I ran a busy restaurant and, on most nights, worked stoically without tantrums or tears, as cool as a cucumber pushed up against a wood-fired oven. When I fried catfish at the James Beard House and watched my rice-crusted fillets sink to the bottom of a cold fryer, I grabbed sauté pans and shallow-fried eighty orders, all under the gaze of cameras. I am the baby of four sisters, born to read the room and quickly figure out how to stay in it. And…I’m the mother of twins. I don’t panic under stress; I move through it with confidence.
