By all rights, I shouldn’t call myself a cook. Cooks, by my standards, are those who sweat over hot stoves, creating sumptuous dishes, the names of which I can’t always pronounce. Cooks are committed souls, who fawn over a potato’s potential, and who think that a set of knives are as exquisite a gift as a precious gem. Personally, I’d opt for the gem. Knives scare me, and I’m convinced that if I dared to dice an onion, I might end up with one less digit
It wasn’t always this way. Back a few years, I was an avid cook. I could whip up an impromptu meal at a moment’s notice, and be applauded for my efforts. I could produce a soufflé that was so high, guests would strain their necks looking up. My pan-seared halibut over lemony zucchini noodles and shallots was legendary. I was no slouch in the cooking department. I baked. Braised. Sautéed. Simmered. I even wore an apron. Oh, yes, those were the good old days when I took it all seriously, and lavished my husband with such loving prandial attention, that he never went hungry. Then he died, and my cooking acumen died along with him.