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The Making of a Cook

Posted February 7, 2008

I started eating early, and haven’t stopped since.

Like most relationships, my relationship with food is one of ecstatic connection followed by days of dull coexistence. My entire childhood, in fact, was indistinguishable from millions of others in terms of food. As far as I was concerned, the world’s culinary range could distill to pizza, hamburgers, and Doritos, and I would never miss the rest.

I began college a scarecrow-thin kid with two goals: have as much fun as possible, yet somehow graduate. Food was fuel. As an English major, I devoured books with far more relish. What precipitated my awakening was a novel by Pat Conroy called Beach Music. In it, the narrator, an avid cook, described grilling shrimp on a grill. And the college junior who had never made anything more complex than a sandwich—who didn’t even like seafood—sat up from the sofa, licked his lips, and said aloud: “Damn, that sounds good.”

Luckily for me, it was around that time that the Food Network appeared on cable. I became an adherent. I watched Emeril Lagasse and Sara Molton and Mario Batali and Bobby Flay. I took note of how they held their knives, how they sliced their vegetables and worked their pans. I noticed the care with which they selected their ingredients. I began to discern patterns in the recipes, and found that some flavors seemed drawn to each other like lovers. I observed. And finally, I ventured into the kitchen.

I’d like to say my first meal was a modest success or at least a proper disaster, but it was neither; simply a drab, overcooked yet vaguely palatable artifact. I remember it clearly: I wanted to invent a sandwich using a boneless chicken breast and a sesame bun. I had in mind some sort of Italian creation, so I added dried spice after dried spice to the thing: oregano, thyme, rosemary, marjoram. I added paprika for color. I threw in some Italian dressing. I added water because it looked dry, and then removed the lid because it looked wet. By the time I finished, the chicken breast tasted like a gritty, somewhat garlicky piece of tire rubber. I topped it with a slice of Provolone cheese, put it on the bun, and ate it. It wasn’t grand, but it was edible. I have since learned that food is actually quite forgiving, especially if you have no palate at all. I started where I was, but I started.

And I haven’t stopped yet. This blog is not that of a professional chef, but one of an amateur cook whose curiosity far outstrips his expertise. I love food because I love the aesthetics of cooking and eating, the adventure of it, the craft, and the things it teaches us about culture and commonality as human beings, as eaters of this world we inhabit. My goals here are simple: to share two things I love with you—writing and cooking—and to experience new tastes along the way.

I hope you’ll join me in eating the world.