A Good Stew and a Better Life: Learning to Cook After 60

I'm over 60 years old, and I never really made learning to cook a formal ambition.

Well, that's not entirely true. I can cook a few things, and some of them are actually pretty good. But nobody ever formally taught me how to cook. I never attended a cooking class, studied recipes, or spent much time worrying about the proper way to prepare a meal.

When I was in my twenties and thirties, the women in my life generally did the cooking, and I did the eating. It was a pretty good arrangement, at least from my perspective.

But I watched them. I paid attention to what they were doing, how they combined ingredients, how they seasoned things, and how they could take a collection of ordinary groceries (that I probably hadn't helped pay for) and turn them into something wonderful.

Most of all, though, I watched them care about me.

Looking back, I realize that preparing those meals was about much more than putting food on the table. They were feeding me, looking after my health, and giving something of themselves without necessarily expecting anything in return. They invested their time, their money, and their effort into making something good for another person.

I learned something about cooking, certainly. But I learned even more about how nurturing and generous the women in my life could be. At the time, I probably didn't appreciate that nearly as much as I should have.

Those lessons became intertwined. The food was wonderful, but the care that went into preparing it was something even more valuable.

Eventually, largely through experimentation, I began cooking for myself. But somewhere along the way, I realized I didn't just want to learn how to prepare a decent meal. I wanted to learn how to prepare a meal for somebody else, with the same thoughtfulness and generosity those women had shown me.

And naturally, I screwed up.

A lot.

I'm reasonably comfortable with my mistakes these days, although that doesn't mean I haven't been thoroughly pissed off when I've ruined a perfectly good collection of groceries and ended up throwing the whole mess away.

There's a movie I love called Wild, based on the memoir by Cheryl Strayed. About halfway through the movie, she's making her way through the desert when she encounters a farmer tending his crops. He gives her a ride, and as they drive toward his place, where she can get cleaned up and have a meal, they talk about life.

She begins talking about the things she considers mistakes, particularly the things she's quit. She asks him if he's ever quit anything, and he tells her that he's quit plenty of things himself—jobs, marriages, things that simply weren't working out. Sometimes, he explains, he didn't have much of a choice.

I've always loved that exchange.

There's something reassuring about hearing another human being admit that life hasn't always worked out the way they planned, and that they've walked away from things they once believed were important. And gentlemen, I think there's a lesson in that, whether we're talking about cooking, relationships, or just getting through life.

Be okay with fucking some stuff up.

You're going to overcook things. You're going to undercook things. You're going to burn perfectly good food, forget ingredients, add too much seasoning (put the salt DOWN, NOW!), and occasionally create something so awful that even the dog might have second thoughts about eating it.

That's okay. You're learning.

And if you can learn to accept your own mistakes without letting them defeat you, perhaps you can learn to be a little more understanding when somebody else makes a mistake, too. Cooking is a journey, but I've come to believe it's also a reflection of how we approach life and how we respond when things don't turn out the way we expected.

In my own life, some things have turned out terribly. Others have been surprisingly wonderful. And over the years, through trial and error, I've managed to perfect a handful of dishes that I genuinely enjoy making. I've also learned quite a bit about life from cooking alongside girlfriends and lovers. I've watched women who were otherwise wonderful cooks absolutely screw up a perfectly good meal. I've watched things get burned, over-seasoned, forgotten, or simply turn out nothing like they intended.

And you know what?

That's okay, too. We do our best for each other, and we learn along the way. Embrace your failures, and settle up with the failures of others, because a lot of times you didn't even have a choice, and neither did they. If you really want to become close to somebody, whether you're standing together in a kitchen or trying to build a relationship elsewhere, you have to give that person room to be imperfect. You have to be willing to let someone make mistakes without turning those mistakes into something larger than they really are. You have to remember that you've screwed things up yourself, and you're almost certainly going to screw things up again. And perhaps most importantly, you have to recognize that somebody making an effort to do something kind for you is often far more valuable than whether the result turns out perfectly. A woman who spends an afternoon trying to make you a wonderful dinner has already given you something valuable, regardless of whether the potatoes are overcooked.

And if the dinner turns out terribly?

Well, there's always pizza. Don't leave failure to itself, join with it to make things better for everyone impacted.

What matters is that somebody cared enough to try. And if someone gets left out, make an effort to normalize the exotic. That's a pretty good lesson to carry into the kitchen, into a relationship, and into the rest of our lives.

Life is like cooking a stew.

Now, before we go any further, I should explain that I'm probably not going to teach you how to make stew the way a professional chef would. In fact, a professional chef might be horrified by some of the things I'm about to suggest.

That's perfectly fine. I'm not cooking for a Michelin star.

I'm cooking because I enjoy eating good food, and because I've discovered that preparing something wonderful for yourself—or especially somebody else—can be one of life's simple pleasures.

And if you're a single man over 60 who has never really learned how to cook, perhaps this little adventure will encourage you to try.

Wabi-Sabi: The Beauty of an Imperfect World

There's a Japanese aesthetic philosophy called wabi-sabi. It's the appreciation of beauty in things that are imperfect, impermanent, and naturally changing. I learned about this from Nancy, the first girlfriend I was blessed to have here in Boise, well over 10 years ago. Aside from being an amazing and giving lover, and not to mention what a wonderful movie theater partner she was, and also how forgiving she was of my flaws and ignorance, she taught me what wabi-sabi was. It wasn't that she embodied wabi-sabo--no far from it. She'd been in her 3rd DUI in the midst of our relationship, but watching her, like she watched me, taught me about the futility of, as it is stated in Ecclesiastes, grasping at smoke.

With wabi-sabi, think about a tree.

Its branches don't grow symmetrically. Some reach straight toward the sky. Others twist sideways, bend downward, or shoot out at nearly impossible angles. Yet nobody looks at a beautiful old tree and complains that its branches aren't evenly spaced. Nature doesn't need a ruler.

I approach cooking much the same way.

When I cut carrots, potatoes, onions, or pieces of steak, I don't worry about making everything the same size. Some pieces are big. Some are small. Some are oddly shaped.

That's fine.

I actually prefer it that way.

I don't want every spoonful of stew to be identical to the previous one. I want a little unpredictability. Maybe one bite has a large piece of steak. The next has a couple of carrots, some beans, and a piece of potato. A good stew should be an adventure to eat as much as it is an adventure to make.

And wabi-sabi, at least the way I've come to understand it, goes beyond accepting crooked carrots. It's about accepting that the world isn't always going to cooperate with your plans. For example, I went to the grocery store this morning intending to buy everything I needed to make my stew. One of the ingredients on my list was celery. The store didn't have any. Now, celery is a wonderful ingredient in stew. It contributes moisture, flavor, and texture. But what was I supposed to do? Cancel the stew? Go home disappointed because the grocery store hadn't cooperated with my culinary ambitions?

Of course not.

I simply made the stew without celery.

And you know what? It's turning out wonderfully.

Perhaps it would have been a little different with celery. Perhaps it would have been better. Perhaps it wouldn't have been quite as good. I'll never know.

And that's perfectly fine.

I think there's something valuable about learning to accept what life gives you and making something worthwhile from it. Not every ingredient is going to be available. Not every plan is going to work. And not every experience is going to turn out the way you imagined. Sometimes you just have to work with what you've got.

Let's Make Some Stew

Here's what I generally use:

- One small can of Dinty Moore beef stew

- One can of medium-spiced chili beans

- One steak

- One package of bacon

- One generous chunk of ham

- Two carrots

- Celery, if the grocery store happens to have some

- Two potatoes

- One whole onion

- Tomatoes

- A mixture of beans, including black beans, black-eyed peas, navy beans, kidney beans, Great Northern beans, and small white beans

For seasoning, I generally use black pepper, garlic salt, regular salt, chili pepper, and whatever else seems appropriate after tasting the finished stew. Notice that I haven't given you precise quantities for everything.

That's intentional.

Cooking doesn't always have to be a science. Sometimes it's an art. And I happen to enjoy experimenting.

My Secret Ingredient Is a Can of Chili Beans

Now, here's where some people might question my qualifications as a cook. I don't begin with a traditional beef broth or carefully prepared stock. My base is one small can of Dinty Moore beef stew and one can of medium-spiced chili beans.

That's it.

And I have a perfectly reasonable explanation. Think about how much time and money food manufacturers have spent perfecting something as ordinary as a can of chili beans.

They've had decades to get it right.

They've experimented with the beans, the spices, the consistency, and the flavor. And you know what? They've done a pretty good job. So why should I spend my Saturday afternoon trying to reinvent a perfectly good can of chili beans? I say let somebody else do that work.

The remaining flavors will come from the steak, bacon, ham, vegetables, and all those wonderful juices that develop during cooking. And those natural juices are where much of the magic happens. I don't ordinarily add water. As everything cooks, the ingredients release moisture and create their own rich mixture of flavors.

The Curious Case of the Disappearing Tomatoes

I also like adding tomatoes to my stew. Tomatoes are interesting because they don't necessarily survive the cooking process in any recognizable form. You cut them up, put them in the pot, and let everything cook. A few hours later, you might have trouble finding a tomato anywhere in the stew. They've softened and broken apart, releasing their moisture and flavor into everything around them. But that doesn't mean they've disappeared in any meaningful sense. They're still there. They're part of the broth. Part of the flavor. Part of what makes the stew what it is. I think that's a rather interesting thing to consider. Sometimes the individual ingredients that contribute the most to something aren't recognizable in the finished result.

A stew becomes something different from the collection of vegetables, beans, and meat that went into it. And perhaps there's a parallel to life in that. We have experiences, meet people, make mistakes, and learn things that gradually become part of who we are. Years later, we might not remember every conversation or every little event that influenced us.

But those experiences haven't necessarily disappeared. They've become part of us. Much like the tomatoes in a good stew.

Cooking Without a Ruler

I cut the steak into bite-sized pieces. The carrots, potatoes, and onions get chopped into whatever shapes happen to result from my efforts. I don't spend a lot of time making them pretty. The ham gets cut into chunks. And then there's the bacon. I use a generous amount of bacon. In fact, I use what some people might consider an absurd amount of meat altogether. Steak, bacon, and ham. All in the same stew. I never claimed this was a conventional recipe. With the bacon, I generally cut the package into several sections. I don't bother separating every individual strip before adding it. Much of it separates naturally during cooking. And if a couple of pieces decide to stay together? Well, that's just another little surprise.

Let wabi-sabi take care of it.

I cook the dried beans separately, making sure they're properly prepared and thoroughly cooked before adding them to the stew. Dried kidney beans in particular need a vigorous boil before slow cooking, because simply making them soft isn't enough to make them safe. The finished beans should be tender, not hard or grainy. I want my stew to practically melt in my mouth. Eating should be a warm, comfortable experience. Life gives us enough difficult things to chew on already.

A Wooden Spoon, Some Good Music, and a Little Patience

I use a slow cooker, generally on its high setting. My stew usually takes around three or four hours, depending on the ingredients and how the cooker performs. I make sure everything is fully cooked and tender before serving. When everything first goes into the pot, it's rather difficult to stir. The potatoes are hard. The carrots are firm. The meat hasn't softened. And because I don't add much liquid beyond the canned ingredients, everything is rather crowded. I use a long, sturdy wooden spoon to turn the ingredients. I generally check the stew every twenty minutes or so, stirring when necessary and making sure nothing is sticking. As the cooking progresses, everything begins to soften. The vegetables release their juices. The meat becomes tender. The ingredients begin to come together. It's a rather satisfying transformation. And while all this is happening, I generally have music playing. Guys, if you have your woman over, this is extraordinarily good advice for you.

I enjoy the Beatles, particularly their love songs. I also listen to Ana Lete, a wonderful local Boise musician who's become one of my favorite singers. I listen to her music when I'm editing photographs, cooking, or doing other things I enjoy. There's something particularly pleasant about spending a Saturday afternoon in your own kitchen, listening to good music and making something worthwhile. You don't have to be anywhere. You don't have to impress anybody. You can simply enjoy the process.

What Cooking Has Taught Me About Photography

I've spent much of my life taking photographs. And the longer I photograph things, the more I appreciate the unexpected. You can leave your apartment with a particular photograph in mind. Maybe you're going to photograph the trees in a park. You know where you're going. You know which lens you're bringing. You have some idea of what you'd like to capture. But when you arrive, the light might be completely different from what you expected. Maybe the clouds have moved in. Maybe the sunlight is coming through the branches at an unusual angle. Perhaps someone walks into the scene who wasn't supposed to be there. And suddenly, the photograph you imagined taking isn't the photograph that's available to you. You have a choice. You can be disappointed that the world didn't cooperate with your plans. Or you can look around, appreciate what's actually in front of you, and discover something you hadn't anticipated.

I've taken photographs that turned out quite differently from what I originally intended. Sometimes those unexpected photographs become my favorites. And I think cooking can be much the same way. The grocery store didn't have celery. The tomatoes disappeared into the broth. The pieces of meat and vegetables aren't all the same size. And somehow, all those imperfect ingredients come together to make something wonderful.

Perhaps that's what I appreciate most about wabi-sabi.

It's not simply that imperfect things can be beautiful. It's that we don't always have to correct, control, or resist every imperfection we encounter. Sometimes we can just appreciate what happens.

Cooking for Yourself Is One Thing. Cooking for Someone Else Is Another.

Now, gentlemen, we need to discuss something important.

If you're a single man over 60, there's a good chance you've developed certain habits when you're alone in your apartment. Maybe you don't worry too much about appearances. Maybe your kitchen isn't always as organized as it could be. Maybe you rush through things. I can certainly relate. But if you're inviting a woman over for dinner, perhaps someone you're romantically interested in, I would strongly suggest paying attention to the details.

First, clean your apartment. Clean your kitchen. Wash your hands thoroughly. Make sure your fingernails are clean. Keep your food preparation surfaces sanitary. And for heaven's sake, be careful with that knife. I've occasionally been careless enough to cut myself while preparing food. Honestly if I'm cooking alone, there's hardly ever a time when I don't cut some finger or another. That's not something to laugh off or accept as inevitable. Slow down. Learn to handle your knives properly. especially if you're going to cook for your girl.

But there's something more important here than kitchen cleanliness. When you invite someone into your home, you're inviting them into your life. Your home should feel comfortable. It should feel welcoming. And most importantly, your guest should feel safe and respected. I've discovered that there's a tremendous amount of satisfaction in taking care of another person. Preparing a meal. Making sure everything is clean. Creating a pleasant atmosphere. Putting on some music. Paying attention to the little things that might make somebody else's evening enjoyable. It's not really about impressing somebody.

It's about demonstrating that you care, and cooking is a wonderful way to do that.

Getting Older Doesn't Mean Giving Up

I think there are a lot of men my age who have never really learned to cook. Perhaps they were married for many years and their wives handled most of the meals. Perhaps they've always eaten at restaurants. Or maybe cooking simply never interested them. And now, for whatever reason, they're living alone.

I understand that.

But I don't believe getting older means we have to stop learning, stop trying new things, or stop making room for other people in our lives.

Quite the opposite.

I think it's particularly important as we get older to continue doing things that make our lives more interesting. And perhaps more importantly, things that make us better people. There's a popular idea that if you want to accomplish something meaningful, you should do one little thing every day that moves you closer to your goal. Some people call that manifestation. I don't think there's anything particularly magical about it. If you want something in your life, you begin making small decisions that create opportunities for it to happen. If you want companionship, for example, you have to create a life in which companionship is welcome. That doesn't mean you can simply prepare a good dinner and expect a romantic relationship to appear. Relationships are considerably more complicated than that. They require mutual attraction, compatibility, patience, respect, and a genuine willingness to care about another human being. But you can work on yourself. You can make your apartment a more comfortable place.

You can learn to cook. You can become a better host. You can develop interests that make your days more meaningful. You can become somebody who has something to share.

And perhaps, one day, you'll have the opportunity to share those things with someone special. That's the goal. If you end your live having given it away to people, children, or women whose lives were made better for it, well, you've got my blessing.

I think the ability to give something of yourself to another person, without always expecting something in return, is one of the most valuable things we can learn. In fact, giving yourself to others, in my assessment, is the ultimate way to live. Maybe that lesson begins with something as ordinary as preparing dinner.

A Ten-Dollar Couch and a Bowl of Stew

So, what happens when my stew is finally finished? Well, I don't have an elegant dining room or an elaborate dinner service. I have a couch that I bought at a thrift store for ten dollars. And I happen to like it. I'll probably sit down on that couch with a generous bowl of stew and find something interesting to watch on television. Today, apparently, Boise State is playing football.

I'm not much of a sports fan. I don't usually follow football, and I couldn't tell you much about the teams. But several people have mentioned the game to me today. And when several people independently tell me about something, I sometimes get the feeling that perhaps the universe is suggesting I should pay attention. So maybe that's what I'll do. I'll sit on my ten-dollar couch, eat my homemade stew, and watch a football game I hadn't planned on watching. And I'll enjoy myself.

There should be enough stew left for another day or two, which means tomorrow I won't have to worry much about cooking. Perhaps I'll have some for breakfast. I've never understood why stew has to be reserved for dinner. And maybe sometime in the future, instead of sitting on that couch by myself, I'll have someone sitting beside me. Someone who enjoys the music. Someone who appreciates a good meal. Someone who doesn't particularly care whether the carrots are all the same size.

I can't predict whether that will happen, but I can do little things that make the possibility more likely. I can keep my home comfortable (and men, you should constantly do this in case you meet a women that you can get into). I can take care of myself (guys, work on the alcohol issues, if you have them, and get out and walk the Greenbelt if you haven't in a while). And I...we can continue learning. And I can make an effort to become the kind of person who has something worthwhile to offer another human being. Maybe that's what getting older should be about. Not simply counting the years that have passed, but finding new reasons to appreciate the years we have left, and as I have said before, giving yourself to others.

And perhaps learning to appreciate that life, like a good stew or an unexpected photograph, doesn't always turn out the way we imagined. Sometimes we quit jobs and wives and relationships, and sometimes instead of blaming ourselves, we should strongly consider that we had no other choice. Guys, go easy on yourselves. You might think that not a lot of people will give you grace, but I hope you to reflect on your life and the times that people have stepped in to save you, and absolutely remember the women that have prepared meals for you. They hoped the best for you. Don't let them down.

Sometimes the most beautiful results come from circumstances we couldn't possibly have planned.