Kiss the chef

I used to date someone who'd grown up not allowed in the kitchen while dinner was being prepared. It's dangerous, and some things are hot and some things are sharp.

I, on the other hand, grew up almost always in the kitchen while dinner was being prepared, because my parents were hoping that some accident would befall me and they could collect the insurance.

Kidding.

But I think of dinner-being-prepared time as time spent in the kitchen, trying to get the attention of one or both parents while they tried to do tricky things and also listen to All Things Considered. Even now, the ATC theme song makes me a little hungry.

Not kidding.

My parents are both good cooks, differently. They raised two kids who would eat anything but lima beans in one case (me, and I did eat them, grudgingly, I just don't any more), and lobster and apple pie in the other (my sister, and she has come around on the lobster part).

My mother can make something out of nothing. We went through some financial lean times, and my sister and I think of kidney beans, canned tomatoes, onions and rice as comfort food. We ate tongue, semi-regularly.

My father is an adventurous cook, entirely unafraid to prepare meals well outside of his culinary ability (and most children's taste buds). To me, the best spaghetti had bacon and eggs and Parmesan cheese in it, and Chinese food came from the Joyce Chen cookbook, not a local takeout place. We ate plum pudding (yes, that's boiled dried fruit and beef fat, doused in brandy and set ablaze) every Christmas.

I have inherited both of my parents' excellent cooking personalities, with a little less inclination to burn the frozen vegetables than my mother, and a little less inclination to use every pot I own than my father.

What does that mean?

This week, it means damn good chili.