It's hard not to stew in the presence of a poseur chef

The other day My Lovely Wife gave me a look. It was the exact same look I imagine she would give our dog if he suddenly started talking in perfect English: a mixture of shock, bafflement and wonder.

All I had done was say: "I find when making grilled cheese sandwiches that using too much butter keeps the bread from getting browned properly."

Once my wife had picked her jaw up off the floor, she gave me another look. This one said, "Okay, Jacques Pepin, if you have such strong opinions about grilled cheese sandwiches" -- I had, in fact, just taken over the preparation of one for our daughter, tsking and tutting over the amount of butter My Lovely Wife had cut from the stick -- "why don't you do more of the cooking around here?"

For the truth is, I don't cook very often. But when I do cook, I can't shut up about it.

On the rare occasions when I make pancakes on a Sunday morning, I will say something like: "You know what really makes the difference in pancakes? Vanilla extract. I added vanilla extract to these pancakes."

That's when my wife gives me a look that says: "Do you know how many tons of Sunday morning pancakes I have churned out over the years? Have you noticed how I just let you eat the damn things? How I don't moon over what's in them? Do you realize that everyone adds vanilla extract to their pancakes?"

(Like most men's wives, mine was born with more muscles in her face than the typical human, making her capable of sending quite complex messages with a single glance.)

I think the problem is that most men approach cooking as though it was a hobby, not an obligation. To us, cooking -- just like golf or woodworking or photography -- involves getting to buy stuff -- not stuff you can eat, but stuff you can play with. Tools.

Sometimes, I'll want to cook something but am stymied by the lack of proper equipment. I'll sigh loudly as I open drawers and cupboards, searching in vain for the exotic device I saw on TV. I think I might cook more often if only I had a ceramic ginger grater, a stainless-steel cream-whipper and my own collection of brining bags. And I'll never understand how we've lived all these years without a salad spinner. All that wet lettuce. . . . The horror!

(I just discovered that Williams-Sonoma sells a "reversible" meat tenderizer. Amazing. Turn it one way, and it makes meat tender. Turn it the other way, and presumably it makes meat tough again.)

For the family's main mealmaker, however, cooking isn't a hobby. It's a relentless grind. It's the perpetual acquisition of ingredients, the unceasing sweep of the minute hand as dinner time draws near, the constant reminder that not every person likes every thing.

I'm surprised we don't eat out more often.