Summary: Cabbage And Kielbasa

From a young age, cooking, and food itself, never meant much to me. Food was food; I ate to not be hungry, and I was on my way. My family members, besides my stepmother, placed a much higher value on their cooking. They respect their recipes to the degree of actually having what they call their 'signature' dishes, which they guard the recipes to jealously. My stepmother, the one who cared about as much as I did about the food, was ironically the family chef. She would cook monotonously, somehow managing to make every food group taste the same. Pan-fried steak was oven-baked chicken, and green bean casserole was also mashed potatoes. Bland, bland, hint of salt, and bland. My grandma, who taught my dad to love cooking, tried teaching her for

He calls it science, when he's 'cooking', and claims it's a form of chemistry he practices on occasion. Other than that, he would go to great lengths, such as burning instant mac, or forgetting to put jelly on a PB&J then cutting it into thirds instead of halves, in order to not be tasked with cooking. He would say, like a recording, "I didn't do anything wrong. Well, you shouldn't have let me cook. I'm no good." On the days he would cook his dish, though, he would let no one see, aggressively keeping everyone out of the kitchen, guarding his process which he claims to require, "Utmost attention at every step, ratios of spices down to the grain, and to-the-second timing not capable of the average eye." He says that, and I have to believe it to at least some degree, because the bland looking, soft yet chewy concoction of two simple ingredients has flavor bursting from every morsel. It's strong, but very subtle, leaving you wanting to just eat more, and more, and over again. The 10 gallon pot that it's made in is always empty within 24

In fact, I hated steak until then, and the reverence everyone seemed to have for it puzzled me. The first time she cooked a good steak, I recall she had been on the phone with my grandma just an hour before hand. I noticed the flavor, and asked if we had used a different cut. She told me no, and that it was cooked the same as always as well, so, "Stop talking and just eat it." She acted standoffish, but I could see the smile hidden below, and noted that each time she cooked steak from then on, it got better and better. Surprisingly to me, so did every other meal she made. It was like watching a flower bloom, one day nothing tasted, and the next, everything tasted uniquely satisfying. The memory of that experience is what motivated me to purchase a bulk shipment of steaks, so that I have to cook them for myself two or three times a week for the next year. It's not great yet, but it's better than it used to be, and that's all I