The Reluctant Chef
I AM NOT A COOK! (Picture the infamous Richard Nixon pose.) Some people live to eat while others eat to live. I am of the latter group. I have nothing against food in general and must confess to enjoying many culinary experiences, especially those involving sweets. However, my tastes are very simple and when left to my own devices a sandwich or bowl of cereal is preferable to the tedious task of cooking.
I appreciate the efforts of those who have cooked for me, and in exchange for that I have cleaned many a kitchen, a chore that is still preferable to cooking. Granted, the readily available fast food industry has abetted my irrational aversion to the culinary arts, but I accept (almost) full responsibility for my stubbornness in food preparation. My loving wife insists that any marginally intelligent person who can read and follow directions can cook, and while I agree with that statement in theory, I must point out that motivation is a necessary ingredient as well. Also, I have found that MANY cooking instructions are omitted from the recipes. Beverly is a wonderful cook, and when she has the time and inclination to do so I am all too happy to clean the kitchen for her.
My history with food is not all that unusual. Growing up in west Texas in a family of 6 on a limited budget, my exposure to different foods was limited. My mom was not always able to cook so we ate out a lot, more than most poor folks. We kids had one option: hamburger. Mom and Dad would occasionally order something called a “chicken-fried steak”, but our order was always the same: “Hamburger, please!” I was in college before I found out that people under 18 were allowed to order a chicken-fried steak.
In high school I had a bit of a nervous stomach and have ever since tried to avoid spicy food. My aversion to jalapeños has caused some people to question my authenticity as a Texan, but my philosophy is simple: I don’t like food that causes me pain. My culinary horizons were greatly expanded when I married into a family that loved Mexican food. The first time they took me out, I was relieved to find some non-Mexican food on the menu and ordered it. However, after taking one look at what was supposed to be a roast beef sandwich (four strips of meat on a piece of white bread), I decided that maybe I should try something that actually qualified as Mexican food. Since then I have fallen in love with tortillas, cheese, avocados, quesadillas, enchiladas, queso, and cheese. (You can’t have too much cheese.)
I’m not a picky eater, but there are some foods that are problematic. My senior year in high school I lived with friends because my family had moved the summer before. Mrs. Dortch was an excellent cook and I enjoyed a hot, home-cooked meal every evening. However, one night the meat looked suspiciously dry and when I tried some, I screamed (in my head) “How could a wonderful cook like Mrs. Dortch let the meat go bad?!?” She was watching me and quickly jumped in with, “You may not like the liver, Billy.” Since my father apparently didn’t like liver, I had never even been exposed to it. I had a similar education when she served turnips, but with those two exceptions, I ate very well that year.
In college we took turns preparing hamburger helper meals. Does that count as cooking? In the year between college and marriage, I ate a lot of sandwiches and cereal – with no complaints! Since then Beverly has done the lion’s share of cooking except when we eat out or bring in food. That worked for 35 years, and then three years ago Bev’s mom moved in with us.
Bobbie has cooked many a fine meal in her day, including the traditional holiday feasts, and I have often shared these delectable meals with the family. Now in her mid-80’s and with limited mobility, she still loves to cook but needs some help. With Beverly working and Bobbie and me retired, it has fallen on us to prepare the noon meal.
I have provided assistance in many ways, such as: lighting the stove, reading the small print of recipe directions, carrying heavy pots to and from the stove, chopping veggies, finding proper cookware, pre-heating the oven, transporting pans to/from the oven, boiling eggs (for Bobbie’s wonderful deviled eggs!), and sometimes I have to remind her what we are cooking. I also do all the grocery shopping. Even when Bev is not cooking, she frequently is the inspiration/instruction behind our entrees.
My role as a “sous chef” has been far more educational than I ever intended. My role as a “sous chef” has been far more educational than I ever intended. (Yes, I said that twice.) Not only can I follow directions, but also I’ve learned a lot of the “tricks of the trade” by assisting Bobbie. I now know how to prepare the oven and cast iron skillet for a scrumptious batch of sweet cornbread. (Thanks to the Martha White Cornbread mix.) There are very few recipes that don’t include onions, celery, garlic, and bell pepper. I know what sauté means, how to pronounce it, and how to do it to onions. I know how to cook spaghetti (“cook it until it is done”) and can fashion a reasonable sauce, with or without meat. (“Ragu” is a four-letter word in this kitchen.) Our specialty* is beans, which must be put on the stove immediately after breakfast, served with cornbread. I love buttered, sweet cornbread. We have used a variety of beans – pinto, white, navy, and black-eyed peas. However, Beverly has recently requested that we refrain from our specialty for a while. Don’t know why. [*specialty = at least once a week.]
Speaking of beans, which must cook for hours, I learned one lesson the hard way. I was told to keep an eye on the beans, so I faithfully checked them throughout the morning. I now know that when beans mysteriously stop boiling, even though the fire is still on, it means that all the water is gone and your house will soon be filling with the stink of burned beans. The novice cook is often oblivious to the obvious.
One Christmas I even mastered the fine art of baking divinity; even though I’m not sure I could repeat that today. Bobbie has taken great pride in the food preparation skills I have gained under her supervision. She brags on me frequently. I must admit, there is a sense of accomplishment that comes with each culinary fete. In spite of my newly developed talents in the kitchen, one thing hasn’t changed. I’m still the one that cleans the kitchen.
enough
