Conqueror Chef

Last night I dominated my kitchen. I got all up inside it and went to town on chopping boards, hobs, vegetables and pans. The result of this saucy endeavour (that is a fantastic pun) was a vegetable bolognese, or more precisely, a Quorn bolognese. Those of you who have read into my bloggy-past may remember my blossoming love affair with Quorn being mentioned. Those of you who haven't been privy to such information should once more feel shame; vast oceans of shame that fester in the back of your mind, occasionally waking you from your slumber whereupon you clutch the pillow tighter and wish you had rectified the mistake. Fortunately I'm a gentle soul and will allow you a moment to go find the post. Go on. I'll wait here...
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...finished? Good. Onwards!

Yes this meat substitute, that is in actual fact a fungus, has seen me expand my sense of flavour to previously unexplored regions as well as giving a new tool to my creative forge: cooking. While I may have dabbled with dishes that required a few ounces of patience (compared to the tried-and-tested frozen food in the oven method) in the past, rarely had a I gone out of my way to make a dish using nought but my wits. Advice from my mum and recipe book not withstanding. I even put in mushrooms. I don't like mushrooms. Something about them just doesn't sit right with me. Perhaps they appear too alien or perhaps it is their texture, either way I don't like them. However, saying that, the aged old technique of chopping undesirables into small enough chunks so as not to bother you was put into a play. A technique just as effective on your enemies as it is on inanimate lumps of fungus. Yes I chopped, diced and damn near Jack the Rippered my way through mushrooms, onions and carrots.
This was an impromptu cooking session you see. I had not been given the chance to meticulously order my ingredients on the worktop, making sure every ounce, gram and spoon-measure was exactly as stated in the recipe. A character trait I blame on my youthful scientific leanings. Nervously I proceeded to create this dish, nay, beast, for surely something not precisely calculated and born of chaos and impulse would be but a vile creature indeed. The onions and carrots softened, the mushrooms browned and the chopped tomatoes (canned) added. Paprika and oregano were added on the fly, guesswork and meh-ing my shadowy companions. Then red wine! Splashes of this dark claret swirled among the already crimson mix. What's this? Tabasco sauce? Why not! Drips of liquid heat plummeted into the pan, an ingredient not even mentioned in the recipe. I had begun going mad. Free wheeling my way into the unknown.
Time passed.
The cauldron was stirred again. And again.
Slowly this mysterious substance became a sauce and not once had I tested it's dark waters. On with the Quorn. Something I understand well enough to cook without instruction. A quick pan fry and then into the cauldron to begin the last leg. More stirring. It now began to resemble the bolognese we all know so well, that wonderful Italian creation (that country knows food). Left to simmer, I turned my mind to more academic matters, "Do I want that cheese or that one? Can I be bothered chopping that mozzarella? My toes are cold." Thoughts that would turn lesser men into gibbering piles of madness.
Time once again passed and the moment of truth arrived. Time to taste what my fit of insanity had wrought. A single scoop of the brew and then into my waiting maw. Anticlimax. It was...ordinary. Neither amazing nor bad, albeit hot enough to burn my mouth. Disheartened that I had not found a delicious way to enlightenment I got some fresh tagliatelle, prepared it accordingly and mixed it together with my normal bolognese and some grated cheese, then retired to my throne (read: sofa).

BOOM!

Somehow, somewhen, with the addition of pasta and cheese my ordinary monster had become a thing of beauty. Beast turned to handsome prince. It was delicious! I devoured it, savouring every bite. Wiping every last drop of sauce from the bowl with my bread like I was prospecting for gold in a river. It was a flavour miracle. Surely somewhere in the world someone had eaten the dark twin of my meal and most likely suffered some form of disgust fuelled stroke. Their taste buds forever ruined.

So it was that a boy set out to merely quell his hunger, and using a simple template that was twisted by imagination and curiosity into something unique, smote the force of hunger with extreme prejudice. I feel there should be some kind of mural depicting my victory. Something along the lines of me standing triumphant over a dragon. Maybe with jets flying overhead. Regardless the point is this:

Do you create better dishes when you follow instructions, set by top chefs of the world whose very job it is to create delicious flavour?
Or, do you fare better when you run off the beaten path, allowing yourself to pick and choose things on the fly following pure instinct?

I ask that next time you cook something, let your mind wander into pastures new and your hand pick and choose those ingredients less used. Cheese where there was none. Spicy where it was once mild. Let yourself be one of the top chefs of the world who do create at whim. You might just slay your own beast.