Kitchen confidence
The future is full of uncertainties. This is not a situation unique to our age. Those who complain that the future is uncertain perhaps have never stopped to consider that it is in the very nature of the future to be uncertain, unpredictable, constantly in motion and forever broiling in the passions of the present.
One can only hope that what has been cooked turns out to be pleasantly delectable, a joy to the discerning palate, and not burnt to a disgraceful crisp of carcinogenic refuse.
We, the cooks, need to take great care in the preparation.
But we must not be overly careful, or worse, fearful, and salt the dish too little, lest it turn out bland and tasteless. Still, we must sprinkle the seasoning with a gentle touch, for should our hands shake from overzealousness, we may find there is scarce worse than a meal whose seasoning exceeds the substance.
Faced with the possibility of a ruined meal, we complain that we know not how to cook. And behold! Our grievances are answered.
We are handed a cookbook, an ancient tome with pages missing, a dusty libram not only out of date but also printed in an illegible font we can barely make out through the fading.
After wiping away the dust and reading a few pages, we put it down in disgust and toss it in the rubbish. We know in our hearts we cannot trust men who recommend cooking with bombs.
We go to the store, and after long hours of searching, we realize with horror that this is the only cookbook left in stock.
Yet we cannot cook a splendid meal without a cookbook unless we know the recipe by heart.
So how then can we create a meal even just half decent? Only trial, error, and perhaps a bit of luck shall see us through in the beginning. We gain a sense of how it is to cook, but still we work in an instinctive, barely conscious manner. Master chefs are fully aware of what they are cooking and exactly how the dish shall taste and, initially, all we can hope to do is emulate them as best we can.
And out of the sweat that flows from a hard day’s work, hurried rumors of other cookbooks are whispered from mouth to eager ear. We put down our knives and sit enthralled by the tales.
So many of them turn out to be disappointments. We shake our heads and acknowledge the blatant absurdity of a quick fix. And thus we sharpen our dulled knives, ending the experience with a little less stupidity in our brains than before.
Even with guidance from a genuine cookbook, one is bound to lose focus every now and then.
The knife goes chop, chop, chop, chop, while we stare into the cookbook, endlessly reading the directions, all sound trailing off into the distance. When we finally catch ourselves and look back at what we’re doing, we notice that we have chopped off a few fingertips.
If such a thing does happen, be not disheartened; be grateful for the bloody stumps that remain. The hand that is whole cannot possibly know how much seasoning is required. Look at the masters. Entire appendages are missing.
Mortified, we ask ourselves: Can cooking ever be a joy?
The answer is firm, a resolute yes. As of yet I know not exactly how I come to know this, but rest assured I shall inform you when I do.
