Cooking without recipes

When I was a wee little Steen, but 10 apples high, I would amble into the kitchen on Sunday afternoon to find my mother with her arms elbow-deep in a mixing bowl, a brightly colored apron tied snugly around her waist and the oven glowing in eager anticipation. On the counter would sit a hodgepodge of measuring cups, half-used sticks of butter and impressively large bags of white flour. I could never figure out what was in the bowl, but somewhere in the mire of ingredients I could usually make out a dog-eared index card smeared with blue ink: a recipe.

I don’t suppose a mother (or father) beaded with sweat in the kitchen before mealtime was anything out of the ordinary for most of us, and I have certainly carried that wonderful tradition of home cooking to my own house, life and family. But there is a subtle difference between my mother and me. She uses recipes; I do not.

I might argue, brimming with pride and accomplishment, that I went to culinary school. Such education is designed to do away with meddlesome recipe cards, and I’ve paid significant time and money for the right to dismiss such things. But my mother — an exceptional cook in her own right — has long retorted that a cook must start with a recipe to earn the right to tweak, alter and cook without written direction.

This proves a sticky issue when she and I cook together. We’re used to owning our own kitchens, and each have our own methods. When streams are crossed, unfortunate guests can feel the tension simmer: ingredients are usurped, methods corrected, pans fly, disagreements bubble.

Through the years, I’ve come to think more and more about this recipe business. I’ll likely always cook the way I write — sitting down to an empty dish and imagining what might be. Oh sure, I’ll be inspired by Yan Can Cook on a rainy Tuesday, or a dish that one chef made that one time on Create TV. I’ll remember a sauce that caught my palate, or a technique I haven’t tried. But then I turn to my own kitchen, and, using nothing but vague and distant memories, create. Never mind a cookbook. Never a recipe.

You might say it’s a pride thing. How many of us watch the Bobby Flays of the culinary world cook on TV and say to ourselves, “Well hell, I could do that?” And if I went to culinary school — well, I’d better be able to do it. That’s what I paid for, right?

But there’s something to the creation element of cooking that demands, for me, a complete independence from instruction. I’m going to make it mine, through and through. That means no recipes (that I would have to partially credit if the meal is a success).

Which is why you’ll likely never eat the same meal twice at my house. I’ll have the same idea in mind — Pasta Bolognese, Salmon Ceviche, Chicken Stew — but it’s different each time. That’s okay by me — it’s a little bit of adventure, right?

Then it dawns on me: I was trained to cook European cuisine. You know, pastas, grilled steaks, heavy French sauces, chicken roulades, schnitzel. But do I know the first thing about Pad Thai? Hell no. And because of my deep-seated aversion to recipe reliance, I will likely never attempt a dish outside my ken. No Asian, no South American, no Australian. Just eat your mint-studded lamb shank and shut the hell up.

I know many a chef whose careers have launched them to near stardom. Some are still humble about their success and cook with a fiery passion and genuine interest, ever willing to learn new things. Others carve out their niche and stay there. What’s worse, they’re often prideful about it: puffed up toques who think they’re the shit. These are the kinds of personalities I see littering TV screens: the Bobby Flays, the Mario Batalis, the Ming Tsais. Then it hits, bumbling through a new pasta dish I saw on Good Morning America: I’m the very same person. I’m impossible about this recipe business, and disgusted by the very idea of them.

Perhaps it’s time to put aside the pans and read a cookbook or two, and maybe have someone show me how to make a proper Sri Lankan curry or Chinese dim sum. There’s nothing wrong with growing one’s repertoire, right? But fair warning, you brave souls: it might take a shot or two of whiskey for me to loosen up.