I Can't Cook, Don't Ask Me

Remember how it felt that morning you showed up to school and everyone was talking about the Brady Bunch episode where Marcia got Davy Jones to appear at a school dance, and you kind of stood off to the side, laughing and nodding in feigned agreement, trying to seem "in the know," but it was all an act because you hadn't actually watched the show due to the fact that it aired on your birthday and your parents had selfishly monopolized the whole evening with dinner and cake and presents?  Remember that?

Well, that's exactly how I feel today when my friends post online about their latest adventures in cooking.  They share photos of homemade concoctions that would impress Wolfgang Puck.  They describe exotic entrees casually assembled from whatever is lying around in their pantries for no special occasion other than "it's Thursday."  They drop terms like "confit" and "par-boiled" as effortlessly as if they were reading from a Dick and Jane book.  "See Dick, flambe.  Flambe, Dick, flambe!"  And timidly I click "like" and add comments, hoping no one will discover that when it comes to cooking, I'm more of a Jan than a Marcia.

Sad, but true.  Somehow, I lack the gene that gives some other humans the instinctive knowledge of what spices work best with which cuts of meat, or how to caramelize onions without burning them to a crisp.  Oh, I can follow a recipe just fine.  But I can also read sheet music; that doesn't make me Van Cliburn when I sit down at a piano. (See Fig. 1, "The extent of my culinary abilities.")

Fig. 1

"So, who cares?" you might well ask.  "There are plenty of other things you can do," you might well say.  And you might well be right.  As a matter of fact, I can sew pretty darn well.  I can't design a pattern from scratch -- but given the right tools I am confident in my ability to create just about any garment or accessory you can dream up.  And that is precisely why it bothers me that I can't cook; the tools.  I love the tools of the trade.  As a seamstress, I know what it's like to walk through a fabric store and touch every bolt and remnant, picturing any number of viable projects I could undertake for each textile.  I get a visceral thrill when I find a new gadget that makes quick work out of an otherwise tedious task, such as a cording foot, or a rotary cutter.  I think I actually screamed out loud the time I was in Jo-Ann Fabrics and found a device specially designed to retrieve lost drawstrings.

So it drives me crazy everytime I walk through a Williams-Sonoma, or browse the Dean and Deluca website.  I covet every pot and utensil with the same greed as if you set me loose in a Bernina factory.  Every condiment jar fills me with the same sense of potential as 5 yards of shantung (see, I can throw around jargon with the best of 'em).  But it is usually a supreme act of self-delusion for me to purchase anything from these stores because I haven't got one fucking clue how to use most of it.  My brain goes into some sort of fantasy mode whereby it seems perfectly logical that simply owning, for example, a Le Creuset braiser will awaken all my latent braising skills, whereupon the floodgates will open and the next thing I know, I'll be a great chef.  I imagine that's the same reason Taylor Swift buys guitars.

Of course, I exaggerate.  The photos my culinarily gifted friends post on Facebook don't really send me down the inferiority complex rabbit hole.  And while it would be nice to own all those shiny objects in the window at Sur Le Table, I am often able to summon the wisdom behind the Zen philosophy of "want not" and resist temptation.  But I cannot overstate the fact that cooking, for me, is a chore.  Making meals for my family on a daily basis is a source of constant stress that can only be overcome by meticulous advance planning and intense concentration.  My family can count on one hand the number of dishes I know how to prepare.  They've been in rotation in our weekly menu for years, and yet if you asked me how to make any of them I'd have to look it up on my smartphone (side note: I recommend downloading the app BigOven).  My best days are the ones where I know at 8am what I'm making for dinner at 6pm.  And once I'm actually in the kitchen, do not expect any multi-tasking, or I'm likely to forget to put the cheese in my lasagna.  I truly am deeply jealous of those people who can cook and chew gum at the same time.

My husband's family once had a reunion in a beach house in South Carolina.  His sister was hosting us, and had rented a house big enough to accommodate all three siblings, their families, and Grandpa.  We were 14 people under one roof.  We swam in the ocean, went on hikes, played charades and watched crocodiles float down the stream that ran behind the house.  But the first memory I have when I recall that week is of my sister-in-law making breakfast.  As I sat at the table drinking my morning coffee I watched her assemble some sort of baked french toast casserole -- for 14 people! -- while other family members swirled in an out of the kitchen.  Conversation never stopped, fresh pots of coffee were brewed, toddlers were entertained and she never once needed to call time-out to consult a recipe.  Preparing this dish was something so natural to her, that she didn't even require a measuring spoon or cup when it came time to add the sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, butter or milk -- for 14 people!  The whole process was so damn sociable... and delicious.

Yes, I can sew.  So what?  When it's my turn to host the Falkenstein Family Reunion what am I going to do, stage a fashion show?  "Hey everyone, let's all sit around and chat while I whip each of you up a camp shirt!"

Not the same, but thanks for trying.

However, if you'd care to talk about that Brady Bunch episode, you can now count me in!