The cook goes from toasted to roasted

Here's a subject I expect my family has pondered. Regarding my cooking, which came first: the egg (stuck to the pan, gooey in the middle) or the chicken (burnt at the wings, yet bleeding at the bone)?

Once upon a time, I could cook. Not perfectly, of course. I never accomplished a gravy suitable for anything other than car putty. And pies were an impossibility.

On the other hand, I had no canned soup in my pantry. I made it from scratch, of course, chopping and browning, seasoning and simmering. I not only baked my own bread (for a while grinding the grains like the Little Red Hen), I emulsified my own mayo. Juiced my own juice. Dried my own herbs. Sprouted my own sprouts. I invented and published recipes – and copied countless of those recipes for clamoring dinner guests. I took my cooking gifts for granted.

If it sounds like I'm bragging, believe me, nothing could be further from the truth. This is a nostalgic lament. Oh, how my culinary talents have fallen – like a badly treated soufflé.

Sometimes I wonder: Was this drastic change as instantaneous as a scorched grilled-cheese sandwich, or was it more of a long, slow drying-out of culinary juices, like the last turkey I labored over? Did I awaken one morning unable to scramble an egg?

No, I believe it was gradual: A watery, bland soup here. A tastes-like-gauze casserole there. A cheesecake fit for mortaring brick walls. A husband saying, "Oh, don't bother to cook dinner. I'll pick something up on the way home," or simply asking, "Why?" when I tell him I've already started the meal. My daughter-in-law's offers to "just bring dinner over to your house – I've been dying to make this dish," becoming more and more frequent. And houseguests who are increasingly inclined to say, "Don't cook – please! No, really. We want to take you out." after sampling my first meal.

Finally, I considered myself fortunate if I could bake a frozen pizza or spoon a jar of sauce over spaghetti without mangling the job. Trust me on this: There is no such thing as "foolproof" convenience food.

For decades, a cookie in our house was homemade, from scratch. I did not buy mixes. But because cookies mysteriously began glomming onto cookie sheets or spreading into one enormous cookie, I bought a brownie mix. My daughter-in-law came by as it was cooling. The magnificent scent of warm chocolate filled the house.

"Want one?" I offered Andrea, proud that I had something tasty around for once. Unfortunately, the brownies were so soupy that she had to slurp up spoonfuls.

"It still tastes good," she assured me kindly. After she left, I decided I could easily fix the consistency problem.

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