Previously in this space, my colleagues Jenn Langefeld and Alissa Goudswaard contributed lovely, mouth-watering entries regarding their culinary exploits. I also contributed a piece about my experiences as a gourmet pasta salesman.

From these entries, you may get the sense that this blogging community is packed to the gills with finely skilled chefs and dedicated foodies. Not so! For I, dear reader, have a confession: I never learned to cook. Or bake, or grill, or fry. Like not ever. Like not at all.

This was not really a problem in college—or, at the very least, I did not perceive it as such. I had bonus bucks. I worked at Knollcrest Dining Hall (free dinners!). I had Chimes snacks. And from sophomore year on, I lived with my parents, so I had a pantry to raid and home-cooked meals to enjoy. Any and all cravings not covered by the above were handled by the proprietors of the nearest Taco Bell.

It also, initially, was not really a problem in the early stages of my marriage, because I have a spouse who enjoys cooking, and in return for her leadership in this realm I was willing to provide services similarly unpleasant for her, such as laundry, dishwashing, moving heavy objects to and fro, and the like.

When Helen wasn’t around, my backup plan usually involved either cereal or, if we were out of milk, a toast sandwich. In fact, I ate a toast sandwich just now, as I was writing the immediately preceding paragraph of this blog. Toast sandwiches are like normal sandwiches, except instead of putting meat or cheese or peanut butter between two slices of regular bread, you use a piece of toast. I did not actually invent this recipe, but trust me, it’s delicious.

I would have gone on alternating between Helen-cooked meals and toast sandwiches indefinitely, as was the case in simpler times, but recently a change in our life routines has upset this happy state of affairs. Helen is back in school—she started her graduate program a few weeks ago—and there’s no way she has the time or the energy to make dinner as often as she used to. There’s no way we’re resorting to quick-and-easy fixes like pre-made dinners and fast food, either—partly because she won’t stand for it in any case, and partly because I’m beginning to realize that my history of mediocre-to-poor dietary and exercise habits are finally catching up with me. So the guy who managed to accrue nearly 26 years of existence on this planet without learning how to even properly scramble an egg has to pick up the slack.

Reader, I neither expect nor implore you to have any sympathy for me. I wouldn’t deserve it.

I’m not sure I know anyone my age or older as hopeless in the kitchen as I am. There are good cooks and not-so-good cooks out there, but pretty much everyone knows how to, say, use a grill. Or can say, definitively and with certainty, when something as seemingly idiot-proof as rice or frozen vegetables is really, truly done.

“Honey, is the broccoli done?”

“I don’t know; you try it.”

“Well, is it soft? Or is it still crunchy?”

“I don’t know! Just try it!”

“How can you not know if something is crunchy or not!?”

I was never made to cook when I was growing up, nor did I ever show any interest in learning. As a result, I lack the ability to look in a cupboard or refrigerator and see the potential therein. Helen can take one look and already have recipe ideas swirling in her head. I see only ingredients. I understand that some of them might be combinable in some fashion, but the how eludes me.

Even those very, very rare times when I’m given the recipe and all the proper ingredients in advance, I’m a plodding, nervous, self-doubting mess, a never-ending source of both amusement and frustration (mostly the latter) for my wife. I’m extremely slow and meticulous about following every step to the letter, carefully measuring and leveling every spice, carefully making sure the ingredients in the bowl are perfectly mixed, carefully checking the meniscus of the waterline on the measuring cup, because I’m not yet really smart enough to know when an extra pinch of cayenne or not-quite-enough milk or a pot boiling for 20 seconds too long will ruin dinner.

So we’re taking this one slow, pathetic, probably-should-be-insulting-to-my-intelligence step at a time. I get a recipe. I get out all the ingredients. I start to putz my way through the directions. Helen is not allowed to physically assist with the food preparation in any way, but she is there to provide wisdom and guidance. And I need her wisdom and guidance on every step.

Am I chopping the onions correctly?  Do you think the peas are ready? What happens when my measuring spoon doesn’t fit in the jar? How will I know when it’s time to flip the fish?

I made tuna noodle casserole the other night, which was all right. I also made this rice and beans dish—I’m not sure it has a name, really—that was actually pretty good. It is not an exaggeration to say that these were the first two dishes of any significance I had ever prepared by myself in my entire life, so I was pleasantly surprised by the fact they turned out okay and I didn’t burn down the kitchen or destroy any cookware in the process. The plan is that, from now on, these (with a few additions to be determined soon) are my dishes, to be prepared henceforth exclusively by me in exactly the manner in which I was instructed.

In all likelihood, I still won’t be able to look in cupboards and see potential. I still won’t be able to create unique tastes from scratch, or experiment with extra ingredients or different spices. What I will be able to do, given enough practice, is mindlessly crank out one of my three or four assigned dishes completely on autopilot whenever Helen has a long day and needs someone else to make dinner.

At least, that’s the plan. But I think it’s a good one. As it turns out, not knowing the first thing about cooking doesn’t have to mean that you can’t be a good cook. I make a mean no-name beans and rice thingy.

Stephen Mulder

Stephen Mulder (’10) is a copywriter, editor, account manager, husband, and member of two semi-professional choirs in West Michigan. He spent the majority of his college days inside the Chimes office, eventually serving as editor, web manager, and delivery-boy-in-chief in 2009–2010. He graduated with a degree in history.