Culinary Master

I've always liked to cook. When I was younger I made experimental sandwiches - PBJ and Oreo cookies; PBJ and Chips; PBJ and salad dressing. Not every sandwich was a winner, but I learned what worked. As a hint salad dressing was not a winner. I also made milkshakes. And when I ran out of ice cream, I found that jelly was an acceptable substitute. My mother did not and subsequently the blender was hidden away and lost.

I still liked to cook. When I started dating and was hanging out with my girlfriend at the house, I'd try and make soup. Not that soup was sexy, but it was something that I knew how to do. My Irish ancestry told me that "Boil it until its mushy" was a good way to get soup started. And so it was. Eventually I got the whole flavor concept down too.

When I was in high school, my father had some heart trouble. Up until that point he had been a double-fisted salt and pepper man. But after his hospital stay he was forced to use other spices that didn't contribute to his sodium levels. And so began our exploration of the spice cabinet. Some of the spices had not been used since my parents were married years before. Others like basil and parsely had been frequent visitors to our palates. My mother was content to restrain her spice levels adventures to black pepper, so it was really just the two of us. My father and I tried them all and discovered that we liked spicy food.

Over the years, I've continued to cook resulting in some memorably good meals and some other memorable meals. One of the memorable meals was the infamous Yellow Meal: corn, potatoes, chicken, and lots of curry. The entire pot was, well, yellow. It was difficult tell exactly what was on your fork without careful inspection. The group that I cooked for had a good laugh and I learned to cook with colors too.

Since I've been married, I've taken over many of the daily cooking chores. Sometimes my wife likes it. Sometimes she has to just grin and bear it. But usually when we want a fancy-schmancy dinner, she does the cooking. I can do a fancy-schmancy dinner, but that would require careful measuring and recipes and stuff. Where's the fun in that I ask you?

A surprising number of men that I know know how to cook. I'm not talking the "BBQ-master" stereotype so often associated with the words men and cooking. These are guys who both know how to cook and enjoy it. And despite all of my earlier trials and trevails, I would count myself to rank highly among them. Not highest, but high. But this weekend I met my match.

Our friends Witty and DQ had a baby a month ago. My wife and I thought we would go out and hang out on Saturday. We called and said that we'd come over and bring some dinner. DQ said that it was quite alright - we didn't need to bring dinner.
"Nonsense, " I insisted.
"No, really. We're okay. We're already making something. You aren't vegeterian, are you?"
"No. Err, can I bring you anything from the store?"
Pause. "Maybe a frozen pizza."
"Deal."
We arrived to find them in the process of getting the ingredients ready for dinner. Witty was zesting the lime while DQ held the baby. And then DQ was preparing the sauces while Witty nursed the baby. And the whole while I kept looking around their kitchen at the wonder that they were creating - and on short notice mind you - and realized that this was the true culinary master. And later after the sauce had been thickened and the rice prepared and the meat beaten with a mallet and cooked, the proof was truly in the pudding.

And so I salute you DQ, Culinary Master.