Salt
I cook a lot.
Crissie and Rasa like my cooking.
Until recently, they also enjoyed eating out.
This drove me crazy.
Not (just) because eating out costs more.
Because it’s competition.
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A good example is pizza.
I make pizza at home at least once a week.
I start from scratch with flour, olive oil, water, and yeast.
I have a multi-part slow-rise process.
At least five days in the fridge, ideally, before I toss and top the dough.
All primo ingredients, of course.
Flash-baked at highest temperature on pizza stones.
F-ing amazing.
Yet Crissie, every year for her birthday, requested takeout pizza from someplace else.
Devastating.
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Rasa had her own betrayals.
A local fast casual chain’s veggie rice bowls.
Garlic naan and spinach and cheese curry from the downtown Indian place.
Bagels.
Bialys.
Cupcakes.
Cookies.
I made all these things.
At home.
By hand.
With love.
But she still went out and got pale substitutes from someplace else.
As if to say: No big deal, Dad.
I don’t need you / your cooking.
I never have.
I’m eating this store-bought bagel because it’d be all the same to me if you were never born.
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Great chefs are creative control freaks.
Insane.
And insanely ambitious.
I’m not saying I’m a better cook than the professionals.
I just wanted to make a better version of every dish on every menu of every restaurant, everywhere in the world.
I couldn’t make my wife and daughter 100% supportive.
But I could pander to them.
A few months ago, I discovered a simple trick to make Crissie and Rasa prefer my cooking to anyone else’s.
Salt.
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It turns out Crissie and Rasa like their food a lot saltier than I do.
I sprinkled my pizza with coarse kosher salt.
They inhaled slices tail to crust.
I poured teriyaki sauce on rice and veggies.
Their spoons scraped the bottom of the bowl.
I brushed my naan with salted butter.
They fought for the last crumb.
Lesson learned.
I miso-bombed my curries, salt-tossed my bagels and bialys, blanketed my cookies with sea salt, and drenched my cupcakes with salted caramel.
“This is amazing,” my family said.
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You could say I won.
I can’t remember the last time Crissie and Rasa asked for restaurant food.
Every night, they outdo one another praising my homemade fare by comparison.
“Wow,” they tell me.
“Another masterpiece!”
“I never want to go out again.”
“Oh,” I reply.
“Shucks.”
“If you say so.”
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We clean up together.
Hang out.
Wind down.
Go to bed.
Everyone’s delighted.
Until the middle of the night.
When I wake up.
Desperately thirsty.