I hope to one day find someone who loves me the way Ike loves cooking. Food enthusiast Ike Spry shares with us his never-ending love story with cooking and how he hopes to spread that love in the future…” — Editor Jesse Denyer

By Ike Spry, Food Dude

We live in the age of industrialized food. You could go to the supermarket and get a rotisserie chicken for literally the same price as a whole uncooked chicken. Certainly, if you really despise cooking, you have plenty of options to avoid it. Plenty of people I know live off frozen food and Doordash, but the ability to do so is only a product of the industrial revolution. Going back to our hunter-and gatherer life, we relied on food for our nourishment because there was no butcher who would cut the meat for us, package our food in cans, and put it in microwave-safe plastic. We found and cooked food for the sake of feeding ourselves. 

It’s changed now. I cook, for example, out of love. I love to feed people; I love to bring back memories, and it makes me feel good to master a technique and see my family and friends gobble up something I’ve spent years nailing down. Certainly, some people don’t have a choice about cooking at home because cooking at home is usually more economically beneficial than eating out every night; and while eating off the one dollar menu at McDonalds may be cheaper, it certainly isn’t healthy. It doesn’t feed our family what they need to live long and nourishing lives. The thing is, there aren’t a lot of concrete reasons to cook at home anymore. It’s not always cheaper to cook at home–especially if you’re buying expensive steak or random spices that you’ll put in the back of the cabinet after making the recipe and never use again. Also, eating out supports local businesses, it can be beneficial to the environment, and really is just less of a hassle for many people. 

But, I like the hassle. I love learning what makes my hollandaise sauce split, or my French macaron rise perfectly, but it’s not fun for everyone. A lot of people hate cooking. My mom would rather clean the kitchen and the tornado of dishes I leave behind than cook enchiladas another time. The reason I love cooking is the feeling I get from it. Cooking brings me joy, seeing people stop talking and just eat the dinner I prepared for them makes me happy. But, more than anything else, it’s about tradition. My English ancestors who overcooked everything, and hated garlic, were not in the same situation that I am. I stand in my kitchen working over a hot stove because it’s what my parents did. The techniques and recipes my father taught me are tangible evidence of his love. I’ll teach my kids the same recipes and techniques, and hopefully they will teach theirs. It gives me comfort knowing that the humble, roast potato, that seemingly only the English know how to make best, is in my cooking arsenal. The pecan pie, with extra pecans, that reminds me of my grandmother, is still something I know how to make. It’s what I remember her by. Memories are why I cook. The scene from Ratatouille where the fastidious food critic eats a well plated, peasant dish of stewed vegetables reminds him of his childhood and brings a tear to his eye–we can all relate to that. When I feel alone, I remember the food my family cooked, and I make the food they made. It gives me comfort knowing that when I slave over the shrine of my hot stove, the fractured remnants of my lineage live on when I cook the food my family made me even when I was too young to appreciate it.