I can’t cook. No really. I’m not being modest: it’s a fact. Whenever I say this, my friends — because they are sweet, polite, and largely full of shit — say “Oh no! No. No, um, really, you’ve prepared many fine dish . . . . . . . . .es” (struggling with the plural as they abandon the last thread of honesty). I love them for this, but they are wrong: I can’t cook.
There are a number of reasons I’m a bad cook:
Impatience (“It says bake for 15 minutes, but what do those last 5 minutes really DO, chemically speaking?”).
Disorganization-induced substitutions (“Shit, I forgot to put mint on the shopping list. Well, lettuce, in small enough pieces, looks sort of like mint.”).
Bizarre spousal ingredient negotiations (“I’m OK if you want to double the curry powder if I can double the olive oil”).
And most often, plain cluelessness. For example, we decided to make a leg of lamb for our Christmas dinner. The recipe* and other knowledgeable kibitzers recommended we use a meat thermometer. And the meat thermometer packaging** recommended that we “calibrate it to our oven” or something like that. Unfortunately, no one provided instructions for this crucial step. I first tried to put the thermometer directly onto the oven shelf. After several tries, it became clear that it was too top heavy and would not stay on the grill, so I had to find something to put the thermometer IN to then put in the oven. And that something of course should be oven safe, right? So I grabbed a pan from the drawer under the oven, put the thermometer in it, and put it in the oven.
A, um, metal pan:
Very Dali-esque, don’t you think? Perhaps I should pretend I intended it as art — as sort of comment on the arbitrariness of the experience of temperature, which in our house is indeed very arbitrary, but that’s a whole nother post.
I’m still not sure how one calibrates a meat thermometer, but this isn’t it. Luckily the good folks at Safeway kept their store open on Christmas, so I biked up and bought a new meat thermometer. That I did this while wearing a pair of reindeer antlers shows that I am, slowly and proudly, becoming my father. The rolled up pants legs exposing thermal socks underscored this progression.
Anyway, the rest of the story is all good. Because Tim was in charge of the actual cooking — with me supplying only a functional pair of arms — it was smooth sailing through the rub, the roasting and the finished product.
We actually did a little touchdown dance when the roast came out of the oven, not really able to believe that we had accomplished this. We paired it with a recipe that Tim invented and that turned out to be wonderful. It was a sort of spousal-negotiation recipe, involving potatoes, which Tim loves, and a handful of Mediterraneany things (fresh basil, olives, red peppers), that I love, all coated in olive oil (I win!) and stir-fried. It was AWESOME. Add raita and a salad and just start grinning!
We had reached a pact with our guests — my in-laws — not to serve dessert, but our talented weekend assistant showed up with something she called pumpkin spice bread (sounds healthy, right?), which turned out to be at least half cream cheese. But there it was, sitting alluringly on the counter in its GladWare container. What could we do? Paired with either black coffee (me, Nora) or scotch (Tim) it was incredible.
All in all, a wonderful Christmas. But not complete without a gratuitous dog photo. Chinook, enjoying his present:
Happy Boxing Day!
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* Yes, I found the recipe in Esquire. One of my favorite airplane reads.
** Yes, I’ve reached the age of 50 without learning to use a meat thermometer. It’s not much help with frozen pasta, though, so the need really hasn’t arisen.
Thought Snax 