A friend recently told me about a conversation he had on a flight from Chicago to DC. Hi seatmate noticed he was reading a food magazine and this inspired her to strike up a conversation. Turns out she loves to read about food, and she bragged about her 1000-plus-page scrapbook that she had filled with her favorite recipes from various cooking magazines. My colleague innocently asked if she had cooked all those recipes. “Oh no!” she blurted, “I don’t cook—but someday I’ll get around to it.”
Ever since hearing about the “scrapbook non-cook”, I can’t help but wondering what role, if any, recipes play in inspiring people to cook. We have more recipes at our fingertips today than ever before. Even if you don’t have a personal cookbook library (that’s a partial shot of mine below) or a backlog of cooking magazines, an infinite number of recipes wait only a google search away. And yet evidence keeps piling up that cooking skills are being lost and that, as a result, we eat more and more of our meals away from home.
The truth is recipes can only go so far in teaching someone to cook—or encouraging someone to even try. Even the most basic recipes are filled with coded language (sear, deglaze, blanche, etc), assumptions and leaps of instruction. Certainly some recipes are easier to follow than others, but no recipe can cover every little detail of kitchen knowledge you need to make you a better cook. Over the years I’ve heard far too many stories from people (often students in my classes) who have tried recipes and failed, and, here’s the part that upsets me the most, they often indict themselves and their lack of cooking skills. I don’t blame people for feeling discouraged after investing time in shopping, money in ingredients, more time in cooking, and possibly even inviting people over adding an element of embarrassment to the mix—it’s enough to drive anyone to the nearest prepared foods department of their local market.
As a cooking teacher and someone who writes recipes for a living, this leaves me in a sort of quandary. While I do my best to include instructional detail in my recipes (making me often long-winded and sometimes causing my editors to pull out their hair), the reality is that the best way to learn to cook is simply start cooking and keep cooking. If you can find someone who knows how to make a dish you like (make sure it’s someone whose company you enjoy), ask them to teach you and then start making it yourself. Just like learning to play the piano, you need to learn the basics and practice before you’re ready for a full-course sonata. Choose a dish you like, for instance, frittata, and start making it, and keep making it until you can make it without a recipe. Sure, you may get a little bored, but that’s when you start introducing variations. After all, the sign of a truly good cook, one who approaches the making of a meal with cavalier confidence but without recipes, is one who knows how to improvise. Once you have a few basics down, then it’s time for recipes—and they will work, because you will know how to make them work.
While the calendar offers 3 months of summer every year, here in Vermont (and in other northern climes, I’m sure), summer is really all about July. Let me explain. In early June, many nights (and even a few days) have me reaching for my fleece jacket and worrying over my tomato seedlings. And then by late August, I’ve got my fleece back on and there are early splashes or red and orange on the hillsides. Now don’t get me wrong, I love June and August, but July, now that’s the stuff. That’s the full, fat, thickness of summer—the only month that I can rely on to be summer start to finish. And, as such, I revel in it. I take any opportunity to soak it in. I read on the deck in the evening, I eat meals on the screen porch, I leave all the windows open even when it rains, I stay outside as much as I can, I scratch in the dirt, I swim in streams, I wear flip-flops and short dresses, I walk the dog through grasses so tall he disappears, and I cook and I eat and eat and eat. I gorge on tender lettuces, cucumbers and ripe berries. I make the rounds of the farmers’ markets, scarfing up every new crop as it appears. From peas and spinach to onions and runner beans to summer squashes and new potatoes; I shop greedily as the farmers’ stands fill out and their crops grow taller and rounder. My hunger deepens as the peppers and tomatoes get fatter and juicier, as the carrots grow longer, as the beets get rounder, as the arugula turns spicy and as the baby lettuces make way for lusty kales and cabbages. During the day, as I sit in front of the computer in my un-air-conditioned office, I surrender to the sweet residue of raspberries on my lips, to the perspiration that makes my forearms stick to the desk, to the itch of nettle stings on my ankles, to the buzz of wasps making a nest under the eaves, to the swishing of the leaves in the breeze, and I dream of what I’ll make for dinner.
July, I’m yours.