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To recipe, or not to recipe

(post, Joan Menefee)

By accident, genetics, and sometimes pure perversity, I am my mother’s opposite. 

She worked for many years as an accountant and likes nothing more than to enter a string of numbers into a calculator and watch blissfully as these numbers eventually add up to zero. I am a recovering math-phobic who still recalls the night in 1980 when I did ALL of a quarter’s math homework in a single evening (and early morning).  

She is tall. I am short.

She likes to talk to people; I prefer to wave at most of them from about a hundred feet.

She works diligently to avoid guilt and cynicism and I . . . well, you get the idea.

She also believes strongly in recipes. And, as you may have guessed, I don’t seem to. I mean I want to, but I don’t. And it appears that I am not alone.

[%image frenzy float=right width=300 caption='"Kitchen Frenzy," by Bernhard and Anna Blume. Used courtesy of the Museum of Modern Art.']

If I close my eyes right now, I can see her standing next to the stove with a three-by-five card two inches from her face and her glasses pushed down her nose, reading and re-reading the number of teaspoons of vanilla that go into the chocolate-chip cookies. 

When we make a stir-fry, my job is to read the vegetables aloud in order (Ordnung muss sein!) as she scoots them off the cutting board and into the chiles, garlic, and oil.  

As a gesture of goodwill and affection, for Christmas one year she got me a book called [%amazonProductLink "How To Cook Without a Book" asin=0767902793]. As if the existence of such an ironical book (because aren’t you cooking with a book, if you read this book?) stamped smiling approval on my habit of chopping a bunch of stuff up and hoping for the best. 

Out more recently is the similar book [%amazonProductLink "Cooking Beyond Measure" asin=0981527108], by Jean Johnson. 

I would like to point out that my anti-recipe tendencies are not limited to cooking. I have tried to knit sweaters, sew blouses, sow gardens, remove stains, and write job applications without more than the most cursory attention to instructions, directions, and other forms of counsel written in short lists and a genial imperative voice. It doesn’t always go well for me.

There may be any number of reasons I rarely follow recipes. It could be ambivalence about authority, fear of success, laziness, or a persecution complex. Maybe I had an accident with a measuring cup during my formative years. I did grow up in the groovy 1970s, after all.

But I have come to suspect that a delusional disorder, akin to people believing they are significant religious and political figures, is also to blame.

I want to be the person who doesn’t need the recipe. I want either to know deep in my bones when I have tipped a teaspoon’s worth of salt into the biscuit dough or live with the salty biscuits I have wrought. (Did I mention that I don’t like to measure either? I also don’t use timers.) 

I want the pleasure of discovering beautiful combinations of tastes, the same way I curate words, looking for a magical concatenation of tone, melody, and rhythm to strike me.
My mother has good-naturedly pointed out that practicing cooking as an art is the province of experts who devote their early lives to following recipes, and to tasting, seasoning, and preparing foods in as many different ways as they can imagine, in order to find an ease with their materials. 

So I guess my method of cooking is a kind of fantasy life. And my mother’s method is an acknowledgement that the tension between making something good and creating something great is interesting, but not worth throwing away 20 dollars worth of salmon over. 

Or maybe her attitude toward cooking is rooted in the fact that she was caring for a family of five by the time she was 27. My youth, by contrast, was spent wandering around, furnishing one-bedroom apartments with thrift-store finds, hunting for music in the bargain bins, and teaching myself how to cook for one.
Another irony is that she probably doesn’t need to follow recipes after six decades in the kitchen. Her nose is surely well-tuned; she can measure a half-cup dry or wet by sound and weight. But like all admirers of an art form, she enjoys observing the rituals of cooking. She follows the recipe because she always has. She is Tradition’s Guardian.

Does that make me a punk?  

I’ll try to live with that and keep a straight face.

reference-image, l

frenzy, l