Cooking up a good reason to be in the kitchen

When my husband and I got married, he was well aware that I was a failure in the kitchen. And that’s being kind.

He was, after all, present the day I learned all about liverwurst.

I was working at the former Meadowbrook Tavern in East Norriton, as, dear God, a cook. Granted, kitchen duties at “The Brook” were pretty basic – steaming clams (so easy, even I couldn’t screw it up), flipping burgers or piling on lunch meat and cheese onto bread. But one day….

The bar was empty except for the bartender, the legendary Tom Brady (no, not the Patriots’ QB, the other, more important Tom Brady -- former Bishop Kenrick High school basketball standout for coach Jerry Kehoe, retired USPS employee, former PIAA umpire and referee and current District 1 rep, member of Al’s Cold Cuts ASA state championship team and current board member of the Montgomery County Coaches Hall of Fame -- just to name a few of his accomplishments), my yet-to-be husband, and a former Warlock (or Pagan, my memory fails in this regard) who was, without question, the nicest, sweetest man I have ever met. I was straightening up the kitchen when Brady leaned in through the swinging door, said a guy just came into the bar and ordered a liverwurst sandwich. And in a blink Brady was back behind the bar, leaving me standing there, completely lost. How do I make a liverwurst sandwich? Heck, forget that -- what in God’s name is liverwurst?

And where the heck is it in this kitchen? Lost. Completely undone by liverwurst. Apparently, when it came to culinary experiences, I lived a sheltered, albeit, white bread life.

My mother never, ever served us liverwurst. We never had tuna fish. Or Fluffenutter. Or Spam. For all of which, however, I am eternally grateful to my mom and grandmother.

But, all this left me at a loss when it came to lots of foods – especially liverwurst.

So, without Google around to solve my problem, I went to the next best thing – Jimmy and Tommy (no, not Brady – the former gang member turned sweetest, nicest man ever was also named Tommy).

They were cozied up at the bar, enjoying each other’s company, when I gently pushed the swinging door (I didn’t want the guy who ordered the sandwich to see me) and quietly asked, “How do I make a liverwurst sandwich?”

The two of them looked at each other, looked at me, looked back at each other, and burst out laughing. Brady heard the commotion, hurried over to the corner where we were, asked what was going on. I whispered, “I don’t know how to make a liverwurst sandwich – do I fry it?”

So, now the three of them are laughing hysterically – the guy who ordered the liverwurst sandwich was looking a bit puzzled.

Honestly, I really didn’t think it was that funny. I still don’t.

Brady stopped laughing long enough to say, “You slice it and put it between two pieces of bread.”

OK, great. But what the heck does it

look like and where is it, I asked.

So, with a little guidance from Brady and a lot of laughter from my yetto-be husband and the former gang member, I delivered the sandwich.

That one incident gave Jimmy a pretty good idea of what kind of cook he was marrying. Fortunately, for the first half of our marriage I worked nights as a sportswriter, so I never had to provide dinner. The 2 nights I was home for dinner, I could pull off something easy and, for the most part, edible (read: processed).

I was finally put to the culinary test when I moved over to news and worked the dayshift. I learned that I really hated cooking, and I was horrible at it. My grandmother always said if you could read you could cook. That was the only time she was wrong.

I could read – but I sure couldn’t cook.

Because I hated it. It was another chore I had to handle after working a full day and dealing with (at the time) 2 kids who, without even trying, drained the energy (read: life) from me.

But as life went on, and different things began to happen with my job responsibility as well as hours, and my health – I found I did have time to cook, and that I needed to make the time to cook.

A few years ago I was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s disease – it’s an autoimmune disease that affects the thyroid and causes hypothyroidism (a sluggish thyroid). Oddly enough I’ve also been diagnosed with Grave’s disease which causes an overactive thyroid. Fortunately (knock wood) my thyroid levels are OK, so I’m not on medication. I control the diseases through diet.

Mostly by cutting out gluten entirely from my diet.

Yes, I am that annoying person that has a gluten intolerance.

Without going into specifics, cutting out gluten from my diet has tremendously improved my health by eliminating inflammation (allowing me to walk without pain), and cleared the fogginess of my mind (I think).

I’ve also tried to eliminate processed foods from my diet – which means no more Rice A Roni, or wonderful things like that.

But what I’ve found is that for every processed, delicious and easy food product out there, there’s a way to make it from scratch.

Yes, that’s right, from scratch.

Guess who can now work her way around a kitchen – yep, me.

Necessity really is the mother of invention, or in this case, the mother of interest. I found that cooking -- not just opening a box – is a creative and enjoyable way to spend an hour or two, or three -- or damn you boeuf bourguignon -- all day.

I was diagnosed several years ago, so my husband was able to witness and experience my transformation into a decent cook. He came home every night anxious to taste every new recipe I tried. Ever the diplomat, if I ever made something he didn’t like, he’d just say, “don’t make that one again.”

My kids are also appreciating my culinary skills – well, except my youngest. Matthew would prefer to just eat chicken nuggets and Tater Tots – but I admit, I’m a Tot fan myself.

Now, my next goal is to take cooking classes. I’m looking into Montgomery County Community College to find out more about the Culinary Arts Institute and the Culinary Enthusiast classes that are offered. I’m realizing the older I get, the more I need to find ways to challenge myself and push myself. It’s too easy to just sit in a comfy chair and eat chocolate and potato chips (both glutenfree, by the by).

My husband and the former-gang-memberturned-sweet-and-lovable Tommy are no longer with us, and they are both greatly missed. So that day that liverwurst nearly got the best of me is more than just a memory of my failures – it’s a terrific memory of two terrific men — laughing their butts off at me.