Whenever I ask E for a recipe on anything, he can tell me the ingredients, but he can’t tell me how much or how many.

“How much cumin did you use for that seasoning?” I ask.
“Oh, I dunno, a little,” he’ll say.
“How much mint do you need for that rub?”
“Um, I think a few leaves.”

Me, I need measurements. Exact measurements. I need to know to the grain of salt or drop of milk how much I need for something. I like to know if I have enough salt in the house available before I start a meal or how much I’ll need to buy at the store.

“I just go by feel,” E says.

This is why I’m good at making desserts—sweets require exact cups and teaspoons, or else cookies don’t rise and cakes taste like dry sponges. Maybe this is why E has never made me dessert.

But because he doesn’t disclose, or remember, the exact numbers (he instructs me to “eyeball it” as often as he tells me to “Google it!“), it’s difficult to replicate any of his delicious meals. Maybe this is his way of keeping ingredients to his special sauce or his famous lamb a secret, like, say Colonel Sanders did for years with his Kentucky Fried Chicken.

That’s right honey, you hold tight to that recipe for your jerusalem artichoke puree. One day it will be worth millions.

“Billions,” he corrects me.

What do you think? Does your man not follow recipes? Do you find this as frustrating as I do?

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