Remember the scene in Ratatouille when Linguini, the bumbling kitchen janitor, nervously attempts to cook soup, only to turn it into a disastrous concoction?
It’s chaotic, ingredients flying everywhere, and just when the mess seems beyond repair, Remy – the tiny rat with a flair for cooking – jumps in, saved the day, and transforms the chaos into a culinary masterpiece.
Remy in 2007 film Ratatouille
That scene always makes me laugh because it reminds me that cooking is never just about following a recipe to the letter. It’s about the balance between precision and creativity – between science and art. My kitchen adventures, though less catastrophic than Linguini’s, have taught me the same lesson.
My first venture into the culinary world happened when I was just five. Armed with a self-made slingshot, I took down with precision a small bird, a tamsi, perched atop a malunggay tree. Proud of my prize, I decided to cook it. I remembered how my mother once prepared chicken, with me assisting by holding its body and wings as she drained its blood after a swift cut to the neck. That vivid image was my guide.
So, I cooked the bird in the simplest way I could imagine – skewering it like a hotdog or marshmallow over a fire. The smell was divine, but the taste? That part escapes me now. Perhaps it was for the best.
For many years after that, cooking became a distant memory. Following our retirement, my wife Cher and I found ourselves with an empty nest. Our routine consisted of breakfast at Jollibee or McDonald’s, alternating between the two, while lunches and dinners were sourced from restaurants or the turo-turo stalls around the city. But monotony quickly set in. Finally, we agreed to start cooking at home, and I volunteered to take the reins.
As an engineer, precision has always been my mantra – one that I’ve worn proudly on a T-shirt during my corporate days, declaring, Engineers do it exactly. I approached cooking with the same mindset. Today, armed with Bing, my AI assistant; measuring cups & spoons, and a basic set of kitchenware, I've transformed myself into our household chef.
Twenty-something Ray
Fast forward to now and here in the US.
On the occasion of Ed’s birthday -- our gracious host – I took it upon myself to prepare one of my old favorites: mixed seafood with oyster sauce. It had been ages since I last made it, but I still remembered the recipe, with a little help from Bing. A simple query brought a recipe for four guests, but I had 15 to feed. No problem – Bing’s advice was straightforward: multiply the recipe by four. Easy enough.
Ed, Cher, and I went grocery shopping for prawns, crabs, squids, mussels, and everything else needed for the dish. But when we got to Walmart and Ranch Market, the biggest wok we could find wasn’t quite big enough. Back in the kitchen, this became a real challenge. Midway through, I had no choice but to split the dish into two pots. Despite this hiccup, the result was not bad. Though, amusingly, half of the dish remained untouched, giving us ample leftovers for the next few days.
Cher in Walmart, Ed in white Ray in the kitchen
Ed offered a valuable lesson: I didn’t need to prepare enough for all 15 guests, especially with the abundance of catered dishes already on the table – lechon pork belly, beef brisket, grilled pork ribs & chicken wings, pork adobo, and vegetable salad – all vying for attention.
“Ray, let’s cook some chicken adobo,” Ed suggested one day, setting down eight pounds of chicken legs and thighs on the kitchen counter. I was game. After all, I’d made adobo countless times before. Again, I turned to Bing that rolled out a recipe for two pounds of chicken. Acting by default (senior moments?), I multiplied the quantities by four to accommodate our batch.
But in the heat of cooking, I realized something was off. What I’d made wasn’t adobo -- it was watery paksiw. The culprit? A tiny typo. I had accidentally entered 1-1/2 cups of water for a two-pound chicken instead of just half a cup. By multiplying this error by four, I added six cups of water instead of two.
As they say, Desperate times call for desperate measures. I drained the excess liquid, though it meant sacrificing some of the flavor. To compensate, I added pineapple chunks and juice to give the dish some extra zest.
The next day, with a sheepish grin, knowing I messed up the chicken adobo, Ed said, “We’ll drink some wine and grilled a pork belly.
Grill work in progress
I embarked on some revenge cooking – grilling three pounds of marinated pork belly. Double-checking every measurement, I’ve ensured no repeat of past errors. After dinner, Ed and I savored the delectable grilled pork belly as sumsuman, accompanied by a bottle of E & J XO brandy, while enjoying the live performances of Diana Krall and Chris Botti on the widescreen TV. Olé!
Ed & Ray chilling out
While Engineers do it exactly works perfectly for rocket ships, I’ve learned that cooking requires a touch of artistry. Precision might build rockets, but it’s creativity that brings flavor to the table.
As I wrap up, I can’t help but think of that classic Simpsons episode where Marge, ever the organized cook, hands Homer a precise, step-by-step recipe to make a dinner.
Marge: “Here, Homer. Just follow this step-by-step recipe exactly, and you’ll be fine.”
Homer (enthusiastically grabbing the recipe): “Got it, Marge! Step-by-step, no problem. How hard could it be?”
[CUT TO: The kitchen – a mess. Flour, sauces, and random ingredients are everywhere. Homer is stirring something unrecognizable in a pot.]
Homer (proudly): “I followed the recipe… mostly!”
Marge (looking horrified at the chaos): “Homer, this was supposed to be spaghetti. What is this?!”
Homer (shrugging, smiling): “I improvised! It’s… uh, SpagHomer!”
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