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I used to work for a non-profit that trained volunteers for overseas work. Most of them were young people. We lived very communally, and certain tasks, such as cooking, were shared. It never ceased to amaze me how little people knew of cooking. Some individuals had apparently never been inside a kitchen before. They were extremely intimidated and had to be shown everything. I once met someone who did not know what needed to be done when a recipe said to beat the eggs. It seems that each generation learns a little less about food preparation than the one before.

I’m fortunate to be old enough to have actually picked up a great deal of cooking experience in my youth. When I was very little, my father had a Sunday morning ritual of making himself a cheese omelette. (Quite possibly he had been doing this since before I was born.) He always added an extra egg to make it a little bigger and cut off a small section for me. I really liked those omelettes, and always hung around and observed as he prepared them. Sometimes he would let me help a little. I got to cut the cheese into into cubes or mix the eggs. When I was about five, I wanted to make my own all by myself. I had never cooked before, and, of course, my mother wouldn’t let me. But I knew I could do it. Every Sunday as far back as I could remember, I had watched my father prepare omelettes. I was intimately familiar with the process and even knew how to turn on the electric frying pan.

When I was good and determined, I got up very early one Sunday morning and woke up my little brother. No one else was up yet, and once they were, it would be too late—the omelette would already be prepared. With my brother’s help, I got the eggs out of the refrigerator. Then I climbed my little stepstool and removed an egg from the carton. It was then that I lost my grip on it, and it crashed to the floor and broke.

I was baffled. Never in all the Sundays of my life did I recall ever having seen an egg drop to the floor. I knew all there was to know about making a cheese omelette, but this was something new. After a minute of intense thought, it occurred to me that a paper towel might be what was required. Just when I had the paper towel in my hand, my mother walked in and asked what we were doing. I explained that we were making a cheese omelette, even though I realized that all that had been accomplished was breaking an egg on the floor. My mother explained once again that I was not allowed to make cheese omelettes. Furthermore, it was early, and my brother and I should go back to bed.

That was my first attempt, and it didn’t really gain me any cooking credibility. But over time, I was allowed to take a more active rôle in the process of helping my father until finally I was allowed to cook an omelette all by myself. Soon after that, I mastered the art of baking chocolate chip cookies. (I still know the recipe by heart.) After that, it was spaghetti. Those are the three defining recipes of my life, and I still make them from time to time today.

The aforementioned electric frying pan met with a sad fate about a year later. One day my mother was preparing dinner, and my father walked in and asked what time dinner would be ready. (Don’t ask me why, but my mother does not like that question, even today.) Without warning, and with no other apparent provocation, my mother grabbed the frying pan and threw it across the kitchen, where it landed at my father’s feet (after he jumped back about a yard), spattering his pants with corned beef and gravy. As she did this, she shouted, “HERE’S YOUR GODDAMN DINNER!” The electric frying pan could not be fixed. (Throwing it while it was still plugged in had not been a good idea.) And such devices were no longer on the market. Making cheese omelettes was never as satisfying after that.