Back when I was just on the cusp of being a teenager, Mom gave me some advice. "Wayne, you really need to learn how to cook. You may wind up marrying a woman who doesn't know how."
To short-circuit the cancel crowd, Andrea is a great cook of all things Southern with a touch of international. As I sit here typing this, I'm thinking about her specialties and will be putting in a request for a batch of her yeast rolls.
But Mom's advice was well taken. I'd already been dishing up my own scrambled eggs since I was tall enough to see into the skillet on the stove. By the time I walked into college, I had a few recipes down pat in my back pocket.
Once, at Auburn, I cooked for a dinner party at my group's hangout house. The pepper steak I served up that evening was a hit, and as a bonus, Andrea was in attendance. It was an early win with the redhead.
Over the years, I've become very aware of our different methodologies in the kitchen. Andrea cooks like a head chef in a professionally staffed kitchen. By the time everything is roasting in the oven or maintaining a slow simmer on the stove, she will have utilized every bowl, spoon, pot, and pan that we have. Dishes will be piled in the sink, leftover ingredients will be out and about on the counter, and a thin coat of flour will cover the stand mixer and everything else within a 2-foot circumference. The meal will be fantastic, but cleanup falls to her support staff of one.
On the other hand, as a result of my undiagnosed OCD, I tend to clean as I go. One of my proudest culinary moments was a time I served up a 3-course meal. I have absolutely no remembrance of what I actually prepared, but I can say with a certain amount of pride that by the time the appetizers hit the table, the kitchen was spotless.
I'm thankful Mom pushed me into the kitchen all those years ago. Being self-sufficient in that arena should be as much a part of a guy's basic skill set as doing an oil change. Once when Andrea was heading out of town for a conference, she told me some of her coworkers asked if they needed to drop off meals to me during the week.
I'm certain the neighbors heard me as I burst out laughing. I asked her to pass along my thanks as I eagerly planned out the next week's menu. Cooking for myself was an opportunity to cut loose and crank up the spice level to 11.
Despite 25+ years of marriage, Andrea's palette is still mired by her Scots-Irish sensitivity to anything hotter than black pepper. It's a shame because as we head into fall, I'm picturing large batches of chili and Brunswick stew whose spice load will need to be moderated.
I take that as an excuse to start working on some ice cream recipes to pair with my spicy dishes.
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