I don’t know how to cook.
Well, that’s not entirely accurate—I don’t enjoy cooking. I’ve never found the kitchen a domain I called my own—growing up in restaurant culture, I always cooked to the beat of someone else’s drum. Chop these faster. Make sure that’s on the stove. It was a mechanical relationship, not one inspiring any love for the craft. And even now, years later, you’ll rarely catch me in there cooking food—between taking things at my own
slow pace and the… particular approach Sarah prefers with respect to cooking, I’m rarely inspired to go in there and experiment. My skills feel better suited to other tasks in Casa de Palmer.
That said, this isn’t an attitude I want my boys to inherit. We need to eat to survive, yes, but preparing that food should be something we enjoy doing, putting a bit of ourselves into our cooking (metaphorically speaking, of course). We should ultimately benefit from food we can appreciate.
So perhaps it’s not a tradition, per se, but my promise to myself is to make sure my sons don’t end up like me. I need to roll my sleeves up, get out of my comfort zone, and start cooking with my boys now to make their lives far better later.
And what better way to do it than with Old El Paso, with flexible products that’re as simple or complicated as you need them to be?