Learning to Cook

I got married in August of 1961 and moved to New Haven to start graduate work at Yale. My wife had to complete a final semester at Brooklyn College for her bachelor’s degree, so she stayed at her parents’ home and commuted on weekends to join me in New Haven.

We both had grown up in Jewish households in Brooklyn. Most of the dishes our families ate reflected our grandparents’ Eastern European background. We routinely ate stuffed cabbage, kreplach, kasha varnishkes, matzo balls, brisket, chopped liver, chicken soup, and noodle pudding. Our local Cantonese restaurant provided some variety.

Neither of us knew much about cooking, so I was surprised when one Friday evening she stepped off the train at New Haven, gave me a kiss and said, “We’re going to have a great dinner tomorrow. Go buy a chicken.” She told me that she planned to cook Chicken Cordon Bleu, a dish that I had never eaten or heard of. I knew that bleu meant “blue” in French. She explained that the English translation of cordon bleu is “blue ribbon.” It referred to a wide blue ribbon worn by members of the highest order of knighthood instituted by King Henri III of France in 1578. She added, “So don’t expect the chicken to turn blue.”

That evening she set the table for the first time in our marriage. We lit candles and used our new silverware, a wedding present from our parents. We put out linen napkins and a handmade tablecloth. We carefully placed expensive English-made plates that my rich aunt had given us. We filled two wine glasses with Chablis, a wine we had just discovered. Then she went into the bedroom for a pair of slippers.

While she was out of the kitchen, I added a few spoonfuls of red wine to the chicken. A half hour later she took the dish out of the oven. It was bright blue. I exploded with laughter at the look on her face. “You did this,” she shouted angrily. Then she began to smile. She said, “I’ve married an idiot!” Laughing, we fell into each other’s arms and, as newly married people do, kissed. Then we ate the blue chicken, which was pretty good. But she made me promise not to mess with her cooking. And I didn’t.

Learning to Cook

I learned to cook when my wife decided to go to graduate school at Columbia University in the late 1970s. She would depart for school in the late afternoon, leaving me in charge of our three children, all under 12 years old. I helped them with their homework, cooked dinners for them, listened to their problems, and put them to bed. I was worried only about the cooking.

At that time, I had never cooked anything more complicated than a hamburger and a can of baked beans. I expanded my repertoire by adding spaghetti and tomato sauce in various forms. When they had enough of my pasta dishes, my children started to cook. Soon they could make grilled cheese sandwiches and scrambled eggs.

I put some energy into learning how to cook healthy and delicious dinners. In the process, I discovered the pleasures that cooking provided after a stressful day’s work, especially when a glass of wine and some jazz were on hand. One evening I prepared Chicken with 40 cloves of garlic, an Ina Gartin recipe. I gave my kids the job of peeling the 40 cloves of garlic, which took them an hour. The dish was a success, and we ignored the garlicky fragrance that came off our skins all evening.

After earning a Master’s Degree in dance, my wife started a dance company at a community college and rehearsed in the evenings and Saturdays. Our children grew up, went to college, and started their adult lives. We missed them. Alone in the evenings, I took up cooking as a hobby. By then my wife had taught me how to make a few dishes. I read a few popular cookbooks. I decided to learn a few recipes in Julia Childs’ The French Chef Cookbook.

I learned to prepare her famous Boeuf bourguignon recipe. I was thrilled at how good it tasted. I was encouraged to try some of her other recipes, including Paella a l’Americaine and Steak au Four, both of which were easier to prepare than I expected. I bought an expensive men’s cooking apron to wear while experimenting with recipes.

I began to host Saturday evening dinner parties at our home. My wife would arrive home at five o’clock after a long day’s rehearsal. She would taste the dishes I had prepared and occasionally adjust the spices. Then she would take a shower, dress, and come downstairs to join our friends already enjoying the fire. They were drinking wine and eating baked Brie, shrimp cocktails, and hummus.

Cooking Involves All of Our Senses

As I learned to cook, I came to understand that cooking was not just a matter of reading a recipe and throwing the ingredients together. It also involved enjoying routine processes such as chopping carrots and measuring the ingredients. And you have to troubleshoot in real-time when something goes awry. You have to be flexible and creative and find a fix on the spot. This could be stressful. Eventually, I learned how to enjoy the process despite the occasional crisis.

Cooking involves all of our senses. I recalled a radio interview with a famous pastry chef decades ago. The interviewer asked him what he liked to bake, and why. He said that he most enjoyed making the pastry called a scone: “At a certain point in the process, I hold the scone dough in my hand for a moment and it feels just like a woman’s breast. That’s why I love to make scones.”

Although I’ve never experienced that specific feeling, when I make meatballs, I mix the ground turkey, eggs, milk, and breadcrumbs by hand and then form them into small balls. I feel their texture and can tell whether to use more breadcrumbs or more liquid. It’s messy but feels good. Then I love the crackling and popping sounds while the meatballs are frying. And I especially enjoy the sight and smell of frying meat. Whenever I cook nowadays, I try to notice how many of my senses come into play.

How to Make Spicy Cioppino

Spicy cioppino is a shellfish stew in a broth made with tomatoes, onions, fennel, garlic, and hot spices. The seafood can include mussels, clams, shrimp, scallops, and a firm fish such as monkfish or haddock. (I’ve never used crab meat or lobster both because of the price and their tendency to get tough when boiled.) Buy a long baguette and make toast garlic rounds to place in the soup dishes before adding the cioppino.

My first step is to pour a small glass of cognac and set it down on the counter. I add a bowl of Trader Joe’s ridge cut potato chips. Then I take out a few cioppino recipes from my files and decide which one to use. I ask Alexa to add the ingredients to a list for a trip to Whole Foods or my neighborhood gourmet market.

I take a sip of cognac and eat a few Trader Joe’s potato chips. I ask Alexa to play songs by Tony Bennett and Bill Evans. I select a knife from my collection of Shun knives. These are made of two kinds of high-carbon, high-chromium Japanese stainless steel, welded and roll-forged together. The blade holds a very sharp edge and is layered like a Samurai sword. Whenever I cook for my family, someone invariably says, “You spent how much on these knives? Are you crazy?”

I take out a large, heavy Le Creuset pot and put it on the stovetop. It radiates an aura of professional cooking. In my mind, I hear it say, “Do not use me for a trivial dish. I demand that you prepare in me a complex and delicious dish that your guests will love, and then talk about your skill for months afterward.” Since I cook to be admired, spicy cioppino is the perfect dish to accomplish that end.

You can cook the broth a day or two in advance and store it in the refrigerator. You will need good olive oil, a medium yellow onion, a fennel bulb, a half dozen garlic cloves, fennel seeds, saffron, red peer flakes, a can of crushed tomatoes, seafood stock or chicken broth, white wine, liqueur or cognac, a long baguette, and chopped parsley.

My First Vegetable Omelet

One morning when I was 11 years old and getting ready to walk to school with my friends, I went into the kitchen to pick up a sandwich my mother had prepared for me. My father was making some eggs, but they didn’t smell like the eggs I was used to. I saw that he had sliced up potatoes, onions, garlic, and red peppers and added them while the eggs were cooking. I asked him what he was doing. He said, “I’m making a vegetable omelet. Do you want to taste it when it’s ready?”

By age 11 I had developed an aversion for vegetables. I was a picky eater and ate just a few foods. I loved roast beef, hamburgers, and frankfurters. I loved French fries. I ate sliced bread but only if the crusts had been removed. I enjoyed certain breakfast cereals. I liked chopped liver and fried chicken. And of course, I loved most flavors of ice cream. That was the extent of my palate at age 11.

I also occasionally ate well-cooked scrambled eggs. Yet the possibility of tasting my father’s vegetable omelet was slim to zero. But it smelled pretty good. He smiled and said, “Come on. Just try it.” He stuck a fork into the omelet and retrieved a piece of egg attached to a few vegetables. He held it under my nose. I could smell the garlic and onions. It smelled good.

“Ok, I’ll try it.” It tasted better than I had imagined. A few minutes later we were sitting together at the table sharing the omelet. The vegetables were crisp and garlicky, and the eggs brought it all together. He smiled at me and said, “You’re going to be late for school. Get going!”

A glimmer of the pleasures of cooking went through my mind. My dad obviously enjoyed making the omelet. I enjoyed eating it. Wasn’t there a message for me somewhere in that?