I often fail at cooking, though people I’ve entertained probably wouldn’t believe so. Actually, one of the best things about cooking is having permission to fail and try again.
I experienced my first real failure in the kitchen during high school when I attempted Pears Caribbean. I had never really paid attention to how my mom cooked anything, maintaining that anyone who could read a recipe could cook. (I have since discovered this is basically true for simple dishes; however the art of cooking is something more than the science of mixing, measuring, and applying heat.) Thus, at 14, I ventured courageously into the realm of decadent dessert, but not without some help. Frequent help, actually, since I called Mom repeatedly.
“When it says to use fresh pears, will canned pears work instead?”
“What does it mean when it says to caramelize the sugar?”
My mother answered each question patiently and ended with, “What are you making?” Each time I responded, “a surprise.” And it was – because by the time my parents came home, the scents of cinnamon and warm sugar permeated the house, luring them to a sparkling clean kitchen with no sign of dessert anywhere. I had thrown the concoction away because I burned the sugar. One moment it looked fine – slightly golden, melting into sweet syrup – the next it was black and crunchy.
This story of repeated calls, mouth-watering aromas, and empty dessert dishes has followed me throughout the ensuing decades. Every boyfriend heard it; every family gathering was regaled with it. It has passed into the realm of mythology. And, like mythology, the story serves a wider purpose. It shows that failure, while disappointing at the moment, is not the end. After all, I didn’t stop cooking, and I’ve caramelized my fair share of sugar over the last 30+ years. It shows that people can learn, grow, progress. It shows that one bad dish, bad day, bad decision doesn’t have to rule our lives.
Over the years many other failures have occurred in my kitchen. Most recently I attempted a dish of honey bubbles for a holiday brunch. I envisioned a donut-like pastry with a boiled honey glaze hardening to hold the little pieces together in a shape of my choosing. I picked the dish – which I later threw away because it just didn’t taste good and it was ugly to boot – because it reminded me of a time I watched Martha Stewart and Julia Child make crockenbouche on television. Julia was in her 80’s and her dessert was sort of a mound of cream puffs rather than a well-shaped peak. Martha Stewart’s creation was, of course, perfect. It was a beautiful tower of glistening puff pastry with gossamer threads of syrup connecting the entire apparatus. It was breathtaking. However, Julia’s - (Ever notice how we all refer to the renowned chef by her first name? It’s a sense of comfortable knowingness that comes from watching her swig a glass of wine and relentlessly pound a chicken at the same time. Today’s T.V. chefs don’t seem to have her moxy. Well, maybe Nigella – and we talk about her on a first-name basis as well!)
Back to Julia’s crockenbouche - While it was more hill than tower, it looked eminently more touchable and edible than Stewart’s vision of confection. It was real. It was something I could produce. As I watched the show that night, I felt sorry for Julia being shown up, as it were. But now, many years later, as I look back on that Christmas special I realize it was a teachable moment. Julia – in her 80’s – was teaching us, yet again, to dive in and give it a try. She was teaching us it is alright if things don’t look perfect, because life isn’t perfect. She was showing us all that we need to step up and do without concern of what others will think of us, of our creations.
There’s the adventure in cooking and in life. It’s the excitement of trying something new without fear of failure. It is the idea that we can create a wonder – a feast – even if it isn’t perfect. And, of course, it won’t be perfect because it will be created by human hands – imperfect hands struggling to bring beauty and order out of a chaos of disparate ingredients. Ultimately cooking is life in a microcosm, and life includes failure. The lesson, of course, is all about what we do with that failure. In the kitchen, we toss it out and try again. We should do the same with any other failing aspect of our lives.
I experienced my first real failure in the kitchen during high school when I attempted Pears Caribbean. I had never really paid attention to how my mom cooked anything, maintaining that anyone who could read a recipe could cook. (I have since discovered this is basically true for simple dishes; however the art of cooking is something more than the science of mixing, measuring, and applying heat.) Thus, at 14, I ventured courageously into the realm of decadent dessert, but not without some help. Frequent help, actually, since I called Mom repeatedly.
“When it says to use fresh pears, will canned pears work instead?”
“What does it mean when it says to caramelize the sugar?”
My mother answered each question patiently and ended with, “What are you making?” Each time I responded, “a surprise.” And it was – because by the time my parents came home, the scents of cinnamon and warm sugar permeated the house, luring them to a sparkling clean kitchen with no sign of dessert anywhere. I had thrown the concoction away because I burned the sugar. One moment it looked fine – slightly golden, melting into sweet syrup – the next it was black and crunchy.
This story of repeated calls, mouth-watering aromas, and empty dessert dishes has followed me throughout the ensuing decades. Every boyfriend heard it; every family gathering was regaled with it. It has passed into the realm of mythology. And, like mythology, the story serves a wider purpose. It shows that failure, while disappointing at the moment, is not the end. After all, I didn’t stop cooking, and I’ve caramelized my fair share of sugar over the last 30+ years. It shows that people can learn, grow, progress. It shows that one bad dish, bad day, bad decision doesn’t have to rule our lives.
Over the years many other failures have occurred in my kitchen. Most recently I attempted a dish of honey bubbles for a holiday brunch. I envisioned a donut-like pastry with a boiled honey glaze hardening to hold the little pieces together in a shape of my choosing. I picked the dish – which I later threw away because it just didn’t taste good and it was ugly to boot – because it reminded me of a time I watched Martha Stewart and Julia Child make crockenbouche on television. Julia was in her 80’s and her dessert was sort of a mound of cream puffs rather than a well-shaped peak. Martha Stewart’s creation was, of course, perfect. It was a beautiful tower of glistening puff pastry with gossamer threads of syrup connecting the entire apparatus. It was breathtaking. However, Julia’s - (Ever notice how we all refer to the renowned chef by her first name? It’s a sense of comfortable knowingness that comes from watching her swig a glass of wine and relentlessly pound a chicken at the same time. Today’s T.V. chefs don’t seem to have her moxy. Well, maybe Nigella – and we talk about her on a first-name basis as well!)
Back to Julia’s crockenbouche - While it was more hill than tower, it looked eminently more touchable and edible than Stewart’s vision of confection. It was real. It was something I could produce. As I watched the show that night, I felt sorry for Julia being shown up, as it were. But now, many years later, as I look back on that Christmas special I realize it was a teachable moment. Julia – in her 80’s – was teaching us, yet again, to dive in and give it a try. She was teaching us it is alright if things don’t look perfect, because life isn’t perfect. She was showing us all that we need to step up and do without concern of what others will think of us, of our creations.
There’s the adventure in cooking and in life. It’s the excitement of trying something new without fear of failure. It is the idea that we can create a wonder – a feast – even if it isn’t perfect. And, of course, it won’t be perfect because it will be created by human hands – imperfect hands struggling to bring beauty and order out of a chaos of disparate ingredients. Ultimately cooking is life in a microcosm, and life includes failure. The lesson, of course, is all about what we do with that failure. In the kitchen, we toss it out and try again. We should do the same with any other failing aspect of our lives.
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