Cooking, Running, Tebowing, and Lin-Sanity!!!

There was a time in my life when people used to tell me I couldn’t cook. More often than not, the ‘couldn’t’ was peppered with a big dose of shouldn’t. “Why would you do that”? This is one occasion where I am thoroughly happy that I paid little heed to what others told me. I never cooked as a child, but my parents brought me up in an atmosphere where food was cherished and celebrated in a working-class, un-foodie manner. This environment allowed for enjoyment, but never really included me in the practicing of the actual production. One day in my early twenties I decided to start cooking. I don’t exactly know how what happened, or what spurned it along. My guess is that it seemed practical, enjoyable, and creative at a time when these were the things I sorely needed. As a guy playing college athletics, and living the life that went along with it, cooking wasn’t exactly high on the list of activities that my friends were aching to get into. The first things I made weren’t great, but always edible. Believe me when I tell you that it was a process. I wasn’t gifted with some secret talent for the stove that allowed me to ascend to culinary greatness at break neck pace. I read books, and most of all, I practiced. I do remember the first time I made something that thoroughly surprised a detractor. It felt good, to have achieved something through repetition and resolve. Cooking remains something that I practice; never something I know or fully understand. When I moved to New York a few years ago, I found myself in a position where cooking took on a whole new light. Living in one of the most expensive cities in the world—where eating out three times a day is de rigueur for so many—with a limited budget thrust me into a position where cooking became essential. It also became fun. I cook all the time, and because of this my abilities have improved. I have answered the criticism of those who questioned why I ever wanted to learn to cook, or whether I could pull it off.

A year ago I found myself living the tale as old as time where men of a certain age realize that they are beginning to slide into the abyss of being out of shape. My truth was that moving to New York had been followed by a long period of inactivity that had taken its toll. Most people wouldn’t really have noticed, but I did, and it began to weigh on me. I didn’t feel my best, and was confronted with that age where our sins of health are no longer absolved. I made the decision to do something about it, and after several weeks of severe resistance and procrastination, I pulled the trigger. I made the decision to start running. From the time I was young, running had always been my own personal Chinese water torture. I had competed in sports my entire life, but running as a part of training was accomplished solely out of spite. I had been told so many things: “you have the flattest feet I’ve ever seen”, “your knees are bad”, “your ankles are weak and skinny”, “you have asthma”. All of this added up to the common conclusion that everyone always told me, “you will never be a runner”. I certainly used all of this as fuel and justification for my hatred of the activity. My decision to start running was fueled by several factors. It was a cheap activity that was never constrained by schedule, partners, or contractual agreements. My friend Ben had gone from an overweight cigarette huffing machine, to a svelte non-smoker who was hitting the roads on a regular basis. And good old vanity was the final catalyst. This was a vanity not defined purely by looks—though looking better for my girlfriend certainly played a role—but born more of the desire to embody a certain sense of health and vibrancy. The first day I ran ¾ of a mile and thought I was going to have a heart attack. Seriously, I thought I might keel over in the street. A ten-minute run required a fifteen minute cool down. This wasn’t ¾ of mile run at breakneck speed either, but more of the loping variety that resembles stumbling forward rather than graceful movement. I could barely get out of bed the next day, and walking down the stairs of the subway station almost led to a full collapse due to the phenomenon I like to call ‘jello legs’. This was right about the time when I very easily could have listened to all the people who told me I would never run. Instead, I was back at it again a couple of days later. I didn’t care what I looked like, or whether I had the coolest matching outfit on. Excuse the gratuitous pun, but I just did it. I read about running, about runners, and gained inspiration wherever I could. It was the model I had learned from my quest to learn about cooking, where the craft and its practitioners had served as the beacon for me to strive for. I ran when it hurt, when it snowed, and when it was quite possibly the last thing I wanted to do. I have run in the dark, the burning midday sun of summer, and the altitude of Colorado. I don’t run fast, and elegant is probably not a word anyone is tossing around to describe my style. Diligent is the adjective I prefer. A few days ago I ran ten miles in perfect weather, finishing at the southernmost tip of Manhattan. It was one year to the day I had begun my little journey to be a runner, and one year to the day I stopped listening to what everybody told me I would never do, instead deciding to practice the age old art of hard-work and repetitive diligence.

So essentially this post is all about me telling you how incredibly awesome I am. I’m kidding, but for a second I began to feel a little silly for tooting my own horn. Self-aggrandizement is not something I really like to engage in, but I do believe in the ability of personal triumph to deliver a message of hope to others. So what is the hope that I am selling? Hard-work pays off. If you want to do something, start doing it, and see where that process takes you. So many people I talk to express an interest in food or cooking, yet stop short of going anywhere with it. They think cooking is out of reach, or that it is for women, or maybe it is just for professionals. They think that they are above it, below it, or not in possession of some mysterious talent that they perceive as integral to the successful consummation of the activity. These notions become all the more crippling because of the world we live in today, where cooking is not only unnecessary, but often portrayed as inconvenient and a waste of time. I don’t think any of these things are true, but the only way to prove that idea is for more people to get in the kitchen. If you are already in the kitchen, help someone else make their first foray, and pass it on. We currently live in a world where the Food Network gets massive ratings, and yet the vast majority of people watching never actually cook. We have become spectators, instead of participants in the things we find interesting. If cooking seems like something you would like to try………try it. Don’t give up at first failure, and don’t listen to what anyone else tells you.

This is the stage of the essay where I reference sports. If you hate sports, I apologize, but not in a heartfelf or genuine way. Sports are amazing, and there are so many lessons to be learned from what happens on a field, a pitch, a court, or in the ring. Let’s take two of the biggest sports stories of the past year, Tim Tebow and Jeremy Lin, and see if we can root out anything that resembles what I have been talking about. Do I think Tim and Jeremy are the best players in their respective sports (football and basketball)? No. Do I think that they will be long term stars in the NFL and NBA? I have no clue. Do I think they exemplify exactly what I have been talking about? Indeed I do. You see Tim and Jeremy are the quintessential examples of guys who were told all along how they would never succeed at a certain level, yet had the resolve to continue to work hard, keep their head down, and never give up. These are incredibly honorable traits that should be celebrated. Neither man was blessed with the physical talents of the players that they are often competing with and against. One player was told he would never be a QB in the NFL, only to lead his team to the playoffs in his own unique style. The other wasn’t even drafted, only to find himself in the starting line-up for the New York Knicks, and having one of the most amazing two weeks in professional sports history. Everyone always focuses on their ‘character’ off the field, or religious beliefs, or ethnicity, or anything else that can serve as a distraction from the real truth that is playing out in front of us. These are guys who worked tirelessly to get where they are. They never bought into all the negative things that people peppered them with, and they emerged as genuine heroes. Are they heroes because they can throw a ball, or shoot a basket? No. They are heroes because they embody diligence. Their hard work paid off. Some would say luck had a big part in it, and it is true that every great story has fortuitous moments attached to it. But both guys were ready when luck opened the door of opportunity, and that simple fact can never be overlooked. Through repetition, perseverance, heart, and diligence, they both succeeded where everyone told them they would fail.

(For all the readers in Russia, Colombia, Italy, South Korea, Brazil, England, and The Ukraine, I will use a soccer analogy in the near future. Thank you all for reading, and thank you for putting up with my American sports references. And I must tell you that is is both amazing and humbling that anyone ever reads my posts, let alone someone in another country. So thank you.)

I was lucky to move to New York, and have access to a world of food diversity. I was also lucky to have access to The New York Public Library and its millions of books, putting a wealth of food knowledge at my fingertips. But hard work allowed me to become a capable cook, with a good deal of insight into the topic of cooking. I am capable of making an endless variety of ice cream, gelato, and sorbets because I worked at it. I perfected a signature Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe because I repeated the process every time my girlfriend uttered the words, “I would love something sweet.” (My recipe continues to change, and I will post an updated version soon). My dexterity at whipping up a weeknight pasta dish came from doing it a hundred times. It came from coming home late and not succumbing to the ease and comfort associated with bad take-out. I have burned myself badly, and cut myself on occasion. I have cooked in a tiny apartment kitchen with little ventilation, and no air-conditioning in the middle of a heat wave. Does this make me a badass? No. If you want to find a badass, go into a restaurant kitchen and watch the Mexican immigrant who cooks your meal, and has been doing it day in and day out for years. I’m just a guy who doesn’t want to stop learning, and doesn’t et bump in the road or a challenging set of circumstances dissuade me from turning out another meal. When I want to see real toughness, I just look at my girlfriend who is completing an Ivy League education. She embodies hard work, and I know this because I have witnessed it firsthand. Her diligence always reminds me of what it takes to get better at anything we wish to pursue. When I serve her a meal I always hope that I put just one ounce of the passion and resolve in my food, that she has given to her path. She inspires me to keep writing, to keep cooking, and to keep trying to produce bread at home that is anything close to palatable. Get in the kitchen, and if you stay there you will become a good cook, a better cook, or at the very least, a person who can put a little love on a plate.