Experimenting in the Kitchen

By no means do I consider myself to be a culinary genius in the kitchen. Truth be told, however, I do my fair share of experimentation. I’m not talking actual science in the kitchen like making rock candy, watching a hard-boiled egg be sucked into a narrow-neck bottle or creating volcanic eruptions with baking soda and vinegar. No, my brand of experimenting is more refined, more deliberate, more edible.

Recipes are my platform and my husband is my willing guinea pig. He doesn’t mind . . . really.

Have you ever given any thought to how recipes are developed? In my mind, the process is as simple as knowing what tastes good to my palate and coupling that with what I believe will taste good together. Physical properties of the food items aside, I believe this to be a decent theory. Eons ago, someone had the presence of mind to invent the highly revered and beloved peanut butter and jelly sandwich. They thought it would be a good idea, and they were right. However, was there a meticulous process of trial and error and numerous iterations involved? Peanut butter and mayonnaise, perhaps? Or maybe salsa and jelly? Would anyone even dare to eat peanut butter and bleu cheese sandwiched between two slices of bread?

I used to think that my cooking repertoire was doomed to be dull, limited and lacking any form of imagination. Many moons ago, I stripped beef, pork, veal and shrimp from my diet. This left me with the exciting choices of chicken, turkey and fish to work with. My palate was dying for flavor. I soon began to view chicken as my Frankenstein. I would pound it, stretch it, stuff it, chop it, mash it and do everything else I could think of to transform the mediocre slab of poultry into a culinary work of art.

Sometimes I pass the test and other times I fail. However, my husband, being the wise and sage man that he is, never complains. In his mind, everything tastes good—he can say “Yummy” with a straight face even as I see the look of horror welling up in his soft brown eyes. Surely he must be thinking, “She’s trying to kill me.”

No, I am not now nor have I ever been on a homicidal rampage. I am merely attempting to forge 47 years worth of mouth-pleasing food into something that I can be proud of . . . a dish that does not require the need for a frantic call to 911 with thoughts of food poisoning lingering in my mind.

I have tried everything from stuffing a boneless, skinless chicken thigh with Italian turkey sausage meat (casings removed) to baked salmon filets covered in a thick layer of sun-dried tomato pesto to squash casserole loaded with Panko bread crumbs, onions and parmesan cheese to throwing a myriad of ingredients into a crock pot and hoping that the end result would be a creation with a desirable flavor profile. I have had dried bay leaves go up in flames in the microwave, burned potatoes beyond recognition, crafted homemade turkey meatballs that looked like something banned from Satan’s headquarters and made desserts that not even my dog would go near, let alone eat.

I am by no means a one-woman kitchen wrecking crew. Again, there have been successes and failures. Thankfully, the triumphs have far outnumbered the defeats. Often, I can create a dish and, once sampled, realize that it is missing that one ingredient that takes it from being just okay to heightened levels of magnificence.

Still I try. I will never stop experimenting in the kitchen. It is my proving ground. As long as the likelihood of victory is dangled before me like a lengthy strand of al dente fettuccine, I will be reaching for that one dish that I can call my own that others will be clamoring to have. The real prize is when someone asks, “Can I please have that fabulous recipe?” After investing so much time, effort and bottles of Pepto Bismol, it’s not likely I’ll share it, but one can hope.