I like to cook, but I am no chef!
Even if "chef" just means, "a good cook",
I am no chef. I let others do the work.
I have come to realize, by reading and by anecdote,
that there are people who cook some of the same things
regularly, who come to be recognized, in their families,
for having cooked those things. I can say, without hesitation,
that no one in my family would ever say that I was the guy
who cooked anything: venison antlers, or rabbit ears,
or anything else memorable. I follow recipes.
I have probably found several hundred recipes
that I followed to their lairs, that turned out wonderfully,
that I never cooked again. Always, I run across
something new that deserves a try; often successfully.
It is successful because the originator was successful,
and I can read, and add a pepper or two, or an herb.
But the plain fact is, I am no chef. I am barely a cook.
Tonight, for instance, as was the case last night, too,
Mari and I said that we should remember the recipe.
There is not a chance in hell that it will happen.
I will chance upon another that sounds savory.
So here I am, almost 79, thinking that I have replicated
a thousand recipes that made the day a pleasure,
and that I cannot remember a single one by heart.
Left to my own devices, I find old-fashioned root vegetables
and throw them into a pot with peppers and meat.
Maybe I should have sobered up, and centered down
upon a really good chili, with or without beans,
and made it every time the kids came to visit.
Then they would be able to ask for the recipe,
and teach their own kids how to make chili the way
their dad made chili, or pancakes, or lasagna.
No such luck! They are on their own, with nothing
to help them except about a million recipes online,
and a Library of Congress full of cookbooks.
Anyway, they prefer hamburgers made simply and honestly
and desperately, with buns, a meat patty, and catsup.
They think waffles are born frozen, and thawed in a toaster.
They are just about as inventive as I am.
We are not a family of culinary creativity.
I have taught them what I know.
Even if "chef" just means, "a good cook",
I am no chef. I let others do the work.
I have come to realize, by reading and by anecdote,
that there are people who cook some of the same things
regularly, who come to be recognized, in their families,
for having cooked those things. I can say, without hesitation,
that no one in my family would ever say that I was the guy
who cooked anything: venison antlers, or rabbit ears,
or anything else memorable. I follow recipes.
I have probably found several hundred recipes
that I followed to their lairs, that turned out wonderfully,
that I never cooked again. Always, I run across
something new that deserves a try; often successfully.
It is successful because the originator was successful,
and I can read, and add a pepper or two, or an herb.
But the plain fact is, I am no chef. I am barely a cook.
Tonight, for instance, as was the case last night, too,
Mari and I said that we should remember the recipe.
There is not a chance in hell that it will happen.
I will chance upon another that sounds savory.
So here I am, almost 79, thinking that I have replicated
a thousand recipes that made the day a pleasure,
and that I cannot remember a single one by heart.
Left to my own devices, I find old-fashioned root vegetables
and throw them into a pot with peppers and meat.
Maybe I should have sobered up, and centered down
upon a really good chili, with or without beans,
and made it every time the kids came to visit.
Then they would be able to ask for the recipe,
and teach their own kids how to make chili the way
their dad made chili, or pancakes, or lasagna.
No such luck! They are on their own, with nothing
to help them except about a million recipes online,
and a Library of Congress full of cookbooks.
Anyway, they prefer hamburgers made simply and honestly
and desperately, with buns, a meat patty, and catsup.
They think waffles are born frozen, and thawed in a toaster.
They are just about as inventive as I am.
We are not a family of culinary creativity.
I have taught them what I know.
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