Gary Cooks

About a month ago, under supervision, Gary began to cook. His first dish was the classic Chicken with Pepperidge Farm Dressing.

He put the six raw chicken breasts in the bottom of the casserole dish. He argued that his Mom cooks all the chicken first and never would put raw chicken in anything. That is as it may be, I argued, but this is how the chicken GETS cooked. Trust me.

After he layered the eight ounces of Swiss, can of mushroom soup, and a half bag of Pepperidge Farm Dressing drizzled with a melted stick of butter, he was a little outraged.

“That’s it?”

“Yes, that’s all there is to it. Just cook it.”

“That can’t be right. That’s too easy.” He sounded hurt. Like, bitch, you had me thinking this cooking thing required talent.

I thought, well, fine, I can up this game, and the next night we made lasagna with fresh pasta.

I’m sure you can guess that this was the best chicken and the best lasagna ever made. Months later he is still talking about that lasagna.

For a little while I tried to encourage him by catering to his ego.

“Gary, should I put walnuts or pecans in the cookies? I can never tell which is better.”

“WHAT? Walnuts! Oh my God, you don’t know that walnuts are so much better in a cookie?”

“No, I really don’t prefer one over the other. Your taste is so much more refined than mine.”

Needless to say, I created a monster.

Almost everything that Gary eats that he has not helped make comes under scrutiny, now that he is The Great Epicure. “This Bob Evans Omelet is too ‘one-note.’ It needs something interesting to counter the egginess” or “I can’t eat this soup. It’s inedible. Too much salt” or “Do these cooks even HAVE taste buds?” If the item is really good, he’ll break down how it is good … but how he could make it better.

He hasn’t cooked entirely on his own, yet. Sometimes I get excited and try to teach him something. Last night we were assembling a frozen meal in a bag, the type that makes you feel like you’re cooking because you brown the frozen chicken, then add the water, then the pasta and vegetables, then the packet of sauce. You know they could cook that chicken and drop it all in one bag and call it Chicken Voila, but they want you to feel like you suffered.

I tried to tell him that the chicken wouldn’t stick if he just let it brown before he stirred it. He couldn’t do it. I don’t blame him. It took me years before I learned that lesson in patience. Don’t pat, don’t stir, don’t check, and all will be better. But he stirred, so there were chicken bits on the pan.

“OOoo!” I crowed, “Let me show you how to deglaze.” A splash of dry wine went in the pan. Magic! Chemistry! People, I get the feeling every pan from now on will be deglazed even if we just pulled bacon out of it. (Kidding, kidding. Don’t try that at home.)

I’m hoping that by the end of the month he’ll have a repertoire of a few casseroles and soups he can make on his own. (See that word “few?” That was orignally “five,” then “three,” then “several,” then finally “few.” Lowered expectations, the secret to my marriage.)

My God, some day I could come home to a home made meal. Ooo! Or bread! Sourdough bread!

CAKE.

It is my birthday month.