Wednesday, June 22, 2005

A year or two ago, if you stopped me to ask about cooking, I would’ve blinked and continued walking. Certainly the utility of microwaves wasn’t lost on me, nor was the forbidden craft of toasting barred from my understanding, but the preparation of food never rose above subsistence-level for me.

“What level do you want?” you probe.

I’ve been brown-bagging lunch for a few months now, and today my dish was deemed visually pleasing. My cooking. Verified independently. The compliment rent my mind fertile with possibilities, and I stopped munching on the crayons long enough to plot my rise to culinary power. The modest trajectory I pictured ended with my hands covered in incriminating Worcestershire sauce, my pupils rich with fiendish gleam. I had routed the Naked Chef from his throne of taste and become the Stark Raving Mad Buck Naked Chef, dispensing my delicious will on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7 PM.

I reached a pivotal point in the arc, wherein I was offering career advice to Rachael Ray in 30-minute segments.

“I’m going to tell you the secret to success,” I said munificently. “You know, the fuel for my creative spirit.”

“What is it?” she asked, scooting to the edge of her seat. “Tell me.”

“Even though I’m old and decrepit, I still have the heart of an 11-year-old,” I explained with vigor.

“Oh?”

“It’s in the Tupperware with the blue top, fourth shelf down in the Sub-Zero.”

Julia Child started clapping and then–

And then a bee flew into my head.

I was contemplating all this in a park when someone’s pollination route apparently included my hair. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed a more tacit endorsement of Herbal Essences. I mean, I suppose I could rub African violets into my scalp or something, but the convenience just isn’t there, you know?

I’ve got to tell you, however, the bee brought an epiphany. The ultimate goal is to cook a dish that could be considered art by three or more people. It’s damn near impossible because I’m not a born chef and, compared to a trumpet or a cello or an easel, cooking doesn’t immediately contain art. Obviously you can play the cello for shit, yet you’re still holding the means to produce art. That’s why it’s there, and in the back of your mind you know you’re struggling to make what wasn’t necessary into a necessity.

But cooking? Everyone needs to do it to some degree, and by frequency alone it’s liable to grind itself into a rut. It’s kind of like writing. You could produce short stories worthy of Pulitzers, or you could write just enough to fill out forms and do your job. Am I making sense? You need to read and write to process your 401k, you need to cook to feed yourself, but you don’t need to play the violin or perform interpretive dance to do your taxes.

The only thing I’ve baked tonight is a major headache, it seems. The point still stands, though: the vision is to produce a food item that also feeds.