My former culinary school instructor called me this afternoon.
I hate it when I speak before thinking.
“Guess what I’m eating?” I asked. Then I recoiled, ready to retract my question, because I realized I’d have to follow it with an answer. Would honesty be the best choice? Could I reveal my culinary lowpoints to the man who had guided me through my first ballotine?
“What?” he asked. This man carries good sea salt with him whenever he leaves the house (and I don’t blame him). He judges all food, because that’s his job. Or so I thought.
“Half a flour tortilla, toasted and topped with butter and sugar.”
“Oooh, yum,” he said. Oooh, yum? Was he kidding?
I don’t think he was kidding. And I realized that my little after school snack, which I learned how to make 20 years ago, is exactly what I love about cooking: there is something honest and delicious about it on all levels. My snack is the supermodel of cooking, caught in her pajamas. But that doesn’t make it any less loveable, even to a guy who makes my culinary skills look kiddish.
The moral: never apologize for your cooking.