It all comes together

 

Do you remember ever being very little and squatting by mud, mixing in twigs or leaves to create mud patties?

          I remember being about eight and discovering an old chemistry set in our basement in Virginia. It was pretty sparse, and I have no idea who it once belonged to (a misguided gift for my older sister?), but it did have a few test tubes and mysterious ingredients to mix together. Very cool. Although I never did produce any results, never mind blow up the house.

          Due to general familial disfunction, I never had those Hallmark moments at my mother or grandmother’s elbows in the kitchen, but I’ve always been drawn to cooking. I mean, who wouldn’t be if you can stir up your own chocolate chip cookies?

          As a late teen, while visiting my grandfather after my grandmother had died, I fixed several meals for him. Not that I was exactly accomplished. The baking powder biscuits made with baking soda by mistake, which meant they tasted like soap. My sainted Grampy ate them anyway. Or the scalloped oysters that he said were wonderful. I later learned that he was allergic to oysters.  

          So many cooking stories.

Columbus, Georgia, dead of summer, no AC. My in-laws down from Massachusetts to see my husband of barely a year graduate from Officer’s Candidate School. I made a meatloaf the day before and almost poisoned everyone. Fortunately, as it cooked the smell from the oven made it obvious that we’d better stick to just the vegetables for dinner.

          But the years went by and I did figure out how to cut up a chicken, make bread, roll pie crust.

Last night: pork stroganoff on spinach fettucine

  

        Maybe it’s a control thing. Being able to

  choose anything in the world, combining the

  ingredients, and then a result you can eat.

        What’s not to like?