We all need a space in our lives that’s just ours and no one else’s. For some guys, that space is making time to go running or participating in a once-a-week jam session. For other guys it’s a near obsession with cooking. This excerpt from How To Cook Like A Man, by Daniel Duane, explains how the kitchen became the one place that was his own — and the place where he rediscovered his masculinity.
Once his baby’s born, and brought home, a young father discovers that his daily life now offers a lot of time for reflective thought. Not that you’re capable of having any thoughts–too little sleep–but hour upon hour passes with nobody really interested in the content of your mind. Sort of amazing: you go from perfect intimacy, claiming that girl’s attention for yourself, to zero intimacy, as the baby’s claim takes over. Weirder still, the breastfeeding wife looks terrific, thinning down under the immense caloric demands of nursing even as her breasts grow to record sizes, and yet it does her man no good whatsoever. Throw in a dog and it’s not long before it occurs to you that your own needs fall well below even those of the canine, in the family’s prioritization scheme. In fact, you are the sole member of the household with zero needs scheduled to be met by any other member of the household. And that’s the context in which I began flipping cookbook pages uneasily: first in The Bombay Kitchen and A Spoonful of Ginger, pondering the idea that I might somehow become a truly accomplished cook of either Chinese or Indian cuisine, during the dark passage ahead. Rick Bayless’s Authentic Mexican Kitchen presented a similar new identity–Guacamole King–but when taken together these options felt too painfully similar to the cultural anomie that had driven my fellow Californian, John Walker Lindh, growing up across the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin County, to become the American Taliban: Wow, gee, I mean, I guess I could be a Buddhist if I wanted–shave my head, wear pink robes, all that cool Zen shit–or wait! I know! I’ll go Muslim! That’ll show my dumb-ass hippie parents!
I’d done my share of yoga, in other words, but not nearly enough to justify still more simmering of onions and tomatoes, nor the endless employment of the same dried-up and dusty spices shipped across the planet to make the only kind of Indian cuisine I knew. Ditto for Thai: I liked that Kung Pao just fine, but national cuisines occupy value niches somewhere down in our lizard brains; they have emotional meaning, such that an upper-middle-class white kid’s fervent allegiance for, say, Ethiopian food, cannot be interpreted as a mere fondness for flat-bread. I probably could’ve dabbled in Spanish cuisine, see, because that would’ve satisfied my trained preference for all things European; Italian would’ve been better; German, not so much…











