I have never been much of a cook. In my house, when people smell something coming from the kitchen, they don’t ask, "What’s cooking?"—they ask, "What’s thawing?"
So, when I landed a job in 2002 as a tour leader for an overland expedition from Istanbul to Cairo, I was focused on the logistics: getting thirty people and a massive truck across the Middle East. It wasn't until I arrived in Istanbul that I received the terrifying fine print: I was also the head chef.
In a moment of pure, survival-driven genius, I held a briefing for the passengers. "This is not a tour," I told them solemnly. "This is a participatory adventure." I drew up rosters, declared that everyone would help shop and cook, and successfully outsourced my own incompetence.
However, I did have to pitch in. Over five months, I became a specialist in one specific area: Spaghetti Bolognese for thirty. It required an enormous pot, a literal shovel’s worth of mince, and the upper-body strength of a weightlifter to stir.
When I finally returned to London, I boasted to my wife about my newfound culinary prowess. Delighted, she stepped aside and let me take over the kitchen. I set to work, channeling the spirit of the Anatolian plateau. The meal was a triumph—rich, savory, and perfectly seasoned.
The only problem was the scale. My hands simply didn't know how to stop at "two servings." I had prepared enough pasta to fuel a small village's migration.
It was a delicious meal, but by week three of "Bolognese Breakfasts," my wife started asking if we could go back to the "What's Thawing?" era of our marriage.
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