A walk down memory lane: my Blue Apron cover letter, 2.5 years later

One of the things I’ve been reflecting on lately is the transition from being a loyal customer of a consumer product to someone engaged in the sausage-making of that product. In my experience (working both at Blue Apron as well as YouTube), it’s akin to a romantic relationship: First, there is a rush of unfamiliarity and adrenaline. Then, the reassuring embrace of acceptance and being known. Finally, there is the fade to the mundane—and the challenge of holding on to excitement despite the tedium and indignities of daily life.

Just like a relationship, when working at a consumer products company it’s easy to lose sight of the beloved details that brought you together, and to focus on the flaws instead.

Since it’s been 10 months since I was in full-out “recruiting mode,” I’ve been thinking a lot about what drew me to the company as I speak to candidates who are interested in joining the team. What did I say when I was on the opposite side of the table? I dug up my cover letter, which you’ll find below.

Hi there!

I’d love to work at Blue Apron because I’ve witnessed the transformative impact of your service on my life and that of others.

About me: I’m not the type of person who cooks, and the word “foodie” makes me uncomfortable. But after being pressured into accepting a week of free meals, Blue Apron taught me that cooking could be interesting, educational, and relaxing — even in the hot shoebox my Brooklyn landlord claims to be a “kitchen.”

A few months after I joined Blue Apron, my father was diagnosed with Stage 4 lymphoma and rushed into chemotherapy. My parents were overwhelmed with doctor appointments, and couldn’t order delivery or eat out because of my father’s compromised immune system. I suggested Blue Apron, and after some convincing, my parents signed up. I called the week after their first delivery to see how things went, worried that even gourmet ingredients would fail to revive my father’s flagging appetite. “The steak,” my father said. “It was a 10!”

It’s no exaggeration to say that weekly Blue Apron deliveries have been the bright spot in a difficult year for my aging parents. To date, my mom has given out 7 Blue Apron invitations and is saving her 8th (and last) invitation for my sister in Albuquerque, who hopes that the service will be available soon.

These experiences opened my eyes to Blue Apron’s game-changing appeal to diverse consumer segments. It is isn’t just for lazy city-dwellers like myself: it’s for people who are sick or disabled, like my father; for working parents with young children, like my sister; or even young guys trying to get a second date, like my brother. And, luckily — when it comes to understanding consumer segments, I’m an expert and have a relevant skillset to offer your team.

I won’t lie: I am often so focused on execution, and so aware of my company’s opportunities and challenges, that I forget about my own origin story and fail to enjoy cooking the three Blue Apron recipes I receive each week. And yet — after more than three years, my parents are still reporting “perfect 10s.”

My experience with Blue Apron is nearly identical to theirs: we order with similar frequency, have been customers for the same amount of time, and our boxes are fulfilled through the same facility. There are two key differences: (1) as an employee, I pay less for the product; and (2) I know much, much more about the product than they do. Both differences point to the challenge of disentangling my experience as a customer from my experience as an employee.

I’m trying to do a better job at grounding myself in this reality — that being so close to something of intense personal significance means that I am constantly confronted with its imperfections. And that demanding perfection from something I love is a fool’s errand, even though to do so is (also foolishly) my nature. Most of all, I’m trying to remember that I choose my perspective. And, as my cover letter shows, the occasional walk down memory lane can re-connect me to why I care so much.