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Strawberry blueberry mulberry clafouti–a combination I threw in the pan one day, and now it’s my favorite.

I recently read Gaiman’s Coraline, in which a ballsy little girl outsmarts, outruns, and hands assorted monsters their rear ends; but this same little girl won’t touch anything her dad cooks.

I’ve been trying to make sense of Little Miss Paradox, and think I might have it: she doesn’t like that he cooks from recipes, that they always produce freakish chicken with tarragon or some such nonsense. This is a child who goes looking for adventure, and when she can’t find any, looks harder. She gets scared, she gets into trouble that’s far more whack than her dad’s chicken, she gets herself out of it, and she goes looking for it again. It follows that she wouldn’t want food made according to a set plan, dinner that’s made on a tidy little track going from Point A to B.*

My kitchen sees both, when it comes to me. I’m equally comfortable with a recipe and with winging it; and admit with zero shame that I have found trouble at the end of both wooden spoons.

On the other hand, there are those who are thrilled with a set plan. My octogenarian uncle had absolutely no problem having a weekly dinner schedule—precisely the same dinner on Monday, and another on Tuesday, and etc., for his entire marriage. When another elderly family friend goes to his favorite Italian restaurant, one that has been around since the 1940s, he gets the ravioli. And I mean every single time. Yet another family friend (gone now) had pizza every Friday night—the same kind of pizza, no less, and it had to be from the same pizza place—for decades. Maybe it’s a generational thing, maybe it’s a male thing. I don’t know. But I don’t think so.

What makes a person choose recipes versus routines? And what makes others scoff at both?

*Neil, if you’re reading this, correct me. And ohmygod, hi. And wow.

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