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Dad learns by taking turn in the kitchen
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Published: April 21, 2008
The question in our household was never "What's cooking?" but rather, "Who's cooking?" And the answer, if you interviewed any member of my family, was never me.
Like most males who grew up in the mid-20th century, I was raised to believe that cooking was woman's work. Not in all circumstances, certainly -- my dad was an Army cook in North Africa in World War II (he flipped a really mean flapjack), although the only actual meal I remember him making when I was a child was his own version of scrambled eggs cooked with bologna.
Maybe you had to be in the Libyan desert to enjoy that. I wasn't, and I didn't.
Male chefs certainly appeared at the occasional restaurant to which our parents took me and my brother, but I grew up in a world where mothers, grandmothers, aunts and cafeteria ladies were the only people I consistently saw involved in food preparation.
That's all changed now, as I have formally assumed the title of chief cook, food dispenser and bottle washer in my household. My wife and children, in particular, are in a perpetual state of disbelief that this transformation has taken place, but I have now cooked often and effectively enough for them that they have taken the first tentative steps toward conversion.
It hasn't been easy. With absolutely no grounding in how to do much more than butter toast, I had to start from scratch, as they say in the more challenging recipes I now consult.
My bible became a book I had heard about called How to Cook: An Easy and Imaginative Guide for the Beginner, which was originally written in 1986 by Raymond Sokolov. In his introduction, he says the book was "aimed at those hungry millions coming out of college dormitories into their first apartments or houses with no ideas how to cope in the kitchens that inevitably came along with an adult home."
That certainly describes me when I graduated college, so I solved the problem by getting married quickly. That wasn't the only reason, of course, but it helped delay the inevitable date when I would be forced to confront the reality of a kitchen without anyone present who would fix me a meal.
My wife was British-born, so we don't really blame her for the generally bland, familiar and comfortable food that she dutifully prepared for a distracted husband and three busy children over the decades. English cuisine has its admirers, but they are pretty much confined to Shakespeare's Sceptered Isle, and didn't number the members of our family among them.
Still, the food was there, we ate it, everyone grew up or grew older, and no one ever got food poisoning. There were even some fun dishes, such as Toad in the Hole and Bubble and Squeak, that evoke pleasant culinary memories. But when the kids were all either off to college or well on their way on their own life journeys, my wife quit. Just like that.
"Not my job any more," she said. "You cook."
Enter Raymond Sokolov and How to Cook, suddenly the most valuable book in my library. My first moment of truth came when I was alone in our cabin in Maine for a month, a 20-minute drive from the nearby village and its sole lobster restaurant, and only my new friend Raymond to give me counsel.
So that summer I learned how to properly cook a chicken, broil fish, make the semi-perfect hamburger and even bake a cake. I learned my way around pots and pans, blenders, mixers and food processors, only barely avoiding losing a finger in the process. I spattered myself with hot oil, grabbed a burning frying pan with my bare hand, and made all the usual mistakes a 3-year-old makes when introduced to a new environment.
I admit, I am not always the easiest person to be around when I am cooking. The stigma of still not knowing exactly what I'm doing, along with the pressure of making everything finish at roughly the same time, sometimes keeps my emotional temper slightly below the boiling point. So my wife wisely pours me a glass of wine, makes sure that I'm not about to blow up the house with the gas range, and then makes a quick exit. I'm left to fulminate against myself, which is no fun at all.
The big test came when my kids all came home for a family meal, in which I would make my culinary debut. I was sweating as I began, and the wet circles under my arms only grew as the dinner preparation stretched over one hour, then two. My middle son, who is an excellent and innovative cook, tried to hover nearby, but my murderous glances soon drove him away, too.
Finally, the meal was ready and served. My children and wife tasted. They paused. They smiled. They were enthusiastic. They said it was all delicious and unexpected and wonderful.
Then my son said he'd cook for the rest of the time they were all home.
Now I'm working on my bologna and eggs recipe. Maybe there are some hungry soldiers around.
■ Dale Pollock, a former dean at the School of Filmmaking at the N.C. School of the Arts, now teaches film there.
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