Cooking shows probably have never been more popular. Our newspaper is full of recipes. Cooking Light is on the kitchen counter. Everywhere I look, somebody is chopping something up and slicing and dicing and a bunch of parts suddenly become a feast. Enjoy.
I can't remember the last time I created anything more ambitious than cereal, toast or a cold meat sandwich. And I don't like making cold meat sandwiches. They're too much work.
Women love guys that can cook. A chef's hat will win you as many points as a football helmet. I remember an early date with a woman who was a phenomenal cook. She asked me to help with the steak. That was new for me. Nobody had ever asked before.
I tried. But suddenly there was fire and smoke and I was handed a glass of wine and ushered into the living room. And I didn't do it on purpose.
When I was a kid and my mom would go to the hospital to have a baby (I was the oldest and we were Catholic so this happened regularly) my dad would make us super eggs. Only daddies can make them, he said.
I never learned how to make eggs. So when I made breakfast for my kids, I told them about super toast. Only daddies can make it, I said.
I remember getting home from a game in Raleigh or Chapel Hill one night about 2:30 a.m., and getting jumped on by my older son early the next morning.
"I want super toast," he said.
"Ask your mom."
"Only daddies can make it."
Several years later, the requests stopped. I made pancakes for my sons and I didn't really know how. But that's what they wanted. For whatever reason the pancakes turned black. Maybe the heat was too high or I left them in the pan too long or the dough or whatever pancakes are made from was faulty. It's not as if I'm a scientist.
"Dad, they're black!" my older kid said.
"They're supposed to be," I said. "They're blackcakes."
Lee and Pete dutifully ate the blackcakes. When they finished they talked, and my older son delivered the message.
"Dad, don't ever make blackcakes again."