To Cook

There are two primary responsibilities that any person, whether country folk or city folk, can strive for that would make them an apprentice Wendellian.  You can grow your own food and you can cook your own food.  Because it's the middle of winter here in Montana I won't be thinking about growing any food for a good while but I can try and cook and so I have. 

A little history lesson for you.  I was one of the most inept kitchen dwellers in the history of mankind, perhaps only my father being worse.  When I was a young fellow and still dependent on my parents for my sustenance and wellness of mind, my mom went on a trip and left Dad and I to fend for ourselves.  I'll remember this story till the day I lay down on my Viking Pyre and am lifted to the sky in smoke and ashes and drunken bellowing.  Dad's cooking.  I'm in the back yard.  The cat's lounging in a wallowed out nest of grass in the lawn.  All is pastoral.  The day is warm and light dapples the leaves of the Dutch Elm that sways above our back porch.  The back door opens in sudden rush of screeching hinges and sucking air and from the kitchen comes spinning in a high arch like a biblical plague of fire and brimstone, my mom's cast iron skillet completely engulfed in flame.  It turns sideways and hurtles out onto the lawn with a bounce, rolling towards the cat who seems perplexed at the sudden burning terror rushing towards it.  At the last second the cat dives out of the way and the pan flops over on its nest burning a large black hole in the once green and thriving lawn.  The door shuts and dad goes back to cooking.  These are my genes.

I've made a commitment to learn to cook.  This is terrifying to me and I shouldn't admit it in any public form whatsoever but if I'm to follow through on my commitment here then I think it should be addressed.  Don't get me wrong.  Sara can cook and does.  She is a fantastic cook but raising three boys isn't always conducive to time in the kitchen so we end up eating plastic wrapped garbage more often than we should.  The boys of course love it. 

My first documented foray into gastronomical creations happened last night and I'm happy to say it was a smashing success.  Nothing and no one burned.  It's still far from the ideal Wendellian utopia we hope for.  I used salad from a bag, marinade from a package, and I have no idea where my steak came from, but it was delicious.  Just to brag a little:  I grilled up some boneless rib-eye, dripping juice but perfectly crispy where the flames had seared the fat and marinade.  I sliced and sautéed a side of fresh brown Italian mushrooms, Sara tossed a caesar salad and we popped a bottle of Columbia Crest red wine.  The boys were in bed and the mood was romantic.  All was well in the universe and Sara said so herself that the steak was perfect.  Makes my stomach growl just remembering that meaty masterpiece.  I was proud. 

This was not my first foray into cooking and I've certainly had a fair number of failures.  Once I made egg-cakes, which is like a crepe, for Sara as a surprise and could not get the dough to thicken for anything.  They were watery, nasty and ran all over the pan till they congealed into a lump of loogey looking parfait.  I kept adding flour to the mixture till it was completely gone and I stood there befuddled.  When Sara woke up she pointed out I'd been using powdered sugar instead of flour.  Her goading lasted most the day. 

I feel that if I can learn to cook good food I'll learn to want good food and I'll become less dependent on the man Mansanto and more dependent on my own abilities and local agriculture.  It's got to be the first step towards bringing an agrarian mindset into being.  If you can't cook you can't eat good, fresh food cause it don't cook itself and it don't come in a plastic bag.  It's like any skill.  If you pay someone else to do it then you're a slave to their competency, ability and price.  The market is your mistress and you are its bitch.  And that's whether you're paying Applebees (Ugh) or Kraft to make your food. 

So if I'm successful at the end of this project I'll be able to cook a good meal with good food.  I'll know what good food is.  I may even break my addiction to zingers.  And I'd like in the process to see my place as a source of good food and learn its intricacies and measure its local possibilities.  It's what Wendell would do I'm sure.