Reverse Engineering Gramma's Cooking by Jason King

As I have said before, my interest in cooking lacked influence from cable food channels, or brand promoting celebrity chefs. My awareness of food and its possibilities began early.

My first recipe I attempted was gingerbread man cookies. In the book, the well baked cookies jumped off the pan, shockingly coming to life to celebrate Christmas.

While Gramma helped make my four year old ultimate culinary vision a success, she was ill prepared to deal with my disappointment. While they were tasty cookies, no abiogenesis took place. The cookies were soulless after they cooked. The book had lied.

Growing older, Gramma reigned supreme in our family's kitchen. She had her corner, don't get in Gramma's way. Don't go in the corner. Gramma threw down every night of the week almost, and beasted holiday meals.

With the execution of a production kitchen, and a chef grade palate to boot, Gramma was the HBIC- Head B@#ch In Charge- in the kitchen. Then I asked... "How much chili powder is in the chili Gramma?"

Gramma politely tells me she's not sure. Not sure?

Has she been dropping epicurean treasure on the table all these years, like a savant can calculate Pi to the 53rd place? Has this woman just raised an aspiring chef, but can give me no concrete direction to replicate her masterpieces?

I must, I will learn to cook. Then, like Indian Jones I'll trudge back threw the relics of great dishes. I'll apply my knowledge like a secret code, unlocking the ability to cook like Gramma.

The more experience I got in the kitchen, the more I realized what she was doing. I began to appreciate the art she made. Like Picaso can't tell you how many milliliters of blue paint he used in a masterpiece, Gramma couldn't give me exact tablespoons old bay, in her shrimp.

My reverse engineering was working. I was figuring things out. My clam chowder was getting closer to hers. I was catching up.

Then the phone calls. Gramma had noticed my skills. The humble angel she is, she knew who to start asking for tips.

I love my Mama, but Mama had not inherited Gramma's prowess. Gramma was asking me. The teacher became the student. Kung Fu the TV show's Asian theme song played in my head. It was a weird place to be.

Gramma has picked up a few tricks from me, and ran with them. I'm still never supervised. One day in a quick fridge forage I thought I saw some take out Chinese hiding. Asking her if I can heat some up  she casually throws out how she made some Lo Mein the night before.

Citing some techniques, I know aren't native to a mid-seventies white woman. I'm impressed.
Gramma stares me in the eyes, and drops the mic. She kisses her two fingers, as she throws up deuces.

Grammma... Wins.