Maybe It’s The Onions… But I Sure Love Cooking
Maybe it’s the onions, but I sure love cooking. There’s something about the emotion behind preparing a dish out of the raw ingredients. I get to do what feels right. It’s probably the reason that I hate baking so much; I hate being confined to measurements and precision. The last time I tried to bake using gut feelings, I wound up with an eggy, floury soup that should’ve been a souffle. For all the disasters I’ve had in the kitchen: the burns, the cuts, the destroying of my cookware, the ruining of gourmet ingredients, and the butchering of some of the most cherished recipes, I still love it.
My first memory of being in the kitchen was when I was about 5 or 6 and my mom was making something on the stove top. I was transfixed at a blue flame. A blue flame. How cool is that?! Well, it was a lot cooler in my childhood mind than it was when I stuck my finger into it. You’d think a severe burn on an index finger might stop someone from cooking, but it actually motivated me. I remember watching Food Network and following the chefs along as they made their dishes. Of course, I was only making scrambled eggs, but I pretended I was following their beef bourguignon recipe. The fire alarm would go off every time I cooked until I was about 12, then I just took the battery out and still burned the hell out of my food.
Suffice it to say, my cooking ability has gotten considerably better, though I still failed when trying to make a Spanish tortilla this weekend. You’d think being a Food Editor would make me not like to cook, write about, or even look at food when I come home at night. But I actually cook dinner for my family every night. There’s something cathartic about preparing something out of nothing. I love what I do, and it’s stress-relieving for me. God knows I’m not doing yoga any time soon.