Voices in my head, or: Why do I cook?

Every time I chop a vegetable, slice a steak, drop garlic into oil, or scrub a pan, I hear voices in my head: my mom, my dad, my grandmothers, friends from college like James and Liz, friends from adulthood like Rick and Claudio, internet friends like NerdyCap, and tv chefs like Gordon Ramsay, Jeff Smith, Anthony Bourdain, Jacques Pepin, and Alton Brown, all of the folks who have taught me, directly in person or indirectly through books, tv episodes, or live streams, about cooking. 

Steak frying with minced onion and minced garlic

Sometimes I hear them instructing me on what I'm doing, the same words I've heard repeat in my head hundreds or thousands of times. "Don't let the garlic overcook or you'll get a bitter taste," mom says every time. Claudio often hits me with "If you hear them sizzling, they're sautéing. If they're quiet, they're caramelizing." "Why the fuck are you fucking doing this, you stupid donkey?!" asks Chef Ramsay quite often. The other tv guys usually defend me against Gordon, though, so it's all good. I like those voices.

I also hear the voices of ex-wives and ex-girlfriends. "This tastes terrible." "Why would you cook this?" "That's not how you're supposed to do that." "Are you trying to make me sick?" Then things turn personal and more vitriolic. I don't like those voices.

Fried chicken livers

So why am I talking about this tonight? When I started writing these blog posts, I did so with the conscious decision that I'm not just going to be writing recipes or how-to guides. Part of that is because I'm not qualified to do a whole lot of that: you can Google anything you want to cook and find hundreds  or thousands of results giving you better planned, better measured, better photographed, and better tested recipes and guides than I could ever provide. Part of it is because, frankly, a lot of the meals I cook are pretty similar as far as ingredients and seasoning: salt and black pepper are staples of just about any recipe you'll find anywhere, and I don't stray too far away from them for the most part (more on this in a later post). The biggest reason, though, is that I just don't want to do that: this blog is just like my live stream in that I'm doing what I'd normally be doing anyway, except that now I'm sharing it with whoever wants to be a part of it.

Chicken liver pâté

In spite of all of the voices, in spite of the stress of cooking, in spite of the depression leading me to want to do nothing but eat fast food, in spite of the anxiety making me feel like cleaning up the kitchen to even be able to start dinner is an insurmountable task, in spite of the fear every time I turn on the burner that I'm going to burn something, that I'm going to overseason or underseason, that I'm going to chop off a finger, that I'm going to fuck everything up and embarrass myself, my friends, and my family...

Steak and veggies

I still just fucking love to cook. The aromas, the textures, the arcane combination of science and art, the feel of a sharp knife slicing through a raw parsnip or a medium rare steak, the sounds of chicken sizzling, cheese being grated, garlic being shaved... it's a symphony and I'm the terrified conductor. I love to experiment, to try new ingredients and new techniques; I get a rush at the grocery store when I spot a vegetable or cut of meat I've never used. And, at the end of the day, food is one of the purest ways I know to communicate history, culture, intent, love, pleasure, and pain in a single bite.

So why do I cook? I mean, the reasons I love to do it all sound good on paper, but why am I in the kitchen every night chopping and dicing, frying and slicing, pushing my knowledge and skills up to and past where they were the night before? Why do I try to outrun the voices telling me that I'm shit, that my food is shit, that everything I do is going to end up as, well, shit? Right now, I'm the only person who eats my food, so, even if it sucks, I'm the only one who has to deal with it. Luckily, it doesn't suck too much anymore.

But just because I'm the only person I cook for now doesn't mean that will always be the case. I'm learning how to communicate better with myself with food so that I can one day better communicate with the woman I love with my food. As much as my meals are designed to deliver sustenance, nutrition, and pleasure to myself, I want to be able to deliver the same to her, and to anyone else who joins me at a table one day. I want to incorporate my own history into my food. I feel like, if I can learn to communicate my mistakes and successes, my pain and love, a wholistic definition of who I am to myself through food, then maybe I can do the same with others.

And why am I doing this blog? Maybe as I learn how to share myself with myself and with others, maybe others can learn to share themselves, too. Maybe as we learn new techniques, new ingredients, and new ideas we can share them with each other, as well. So I'll keep breaking bread with myself, with the woman I love, with friends and family; I'll keep learning, experimenting, and exploring; I'll keep sharing it all right here.

The best omelette I've made

"Food is everything we are. It's an extension of nationalist feeling, ethnic feeling, your personal history, your province, your region, your tribe, your grandma. It's inseparable from those from the get-go." - Anthony Bourdain