I watch the three people around the table chew their pork chops. They gnaw. They grind. The meat is gray, for chrissakes. It needs more salt and less pepper.

I am the cook. And, well…shit. 

Someone does mention that the couscous is good. It came out of a box.

Otherwise, we’re silent.

I will never do this again. 

I don’t mean I will never host a dinner party again. I mean that never, ever, again will I cook badly. I’m done. I will learn how to cook. 

Because nothing kills conversation like a tough pork chop. And food, good food, cooked well, is a foundation. It is rapport. It is a relationship. Mostly, it is communication.

And what I’ve just communicated to my friends is that their worth to me is gray pork.

I want what we find in good restaurants. Wine, yes. Warm bread. And the rapidly escalating noise caused by people talking to and over one another. The sloppy noise where people talk with their mouths full, because their mouths are full, and because they like what is in them. 

It makes people forget their manners. That’s what good food does. I want my dining room chairs filled with pigs. Well-seasoned, tender, pink pigs.

I don’t think this is a vain or superfluous goal. There are people I love. When they’re with me, I want them to eat good food and know that I love them. I want new friends to feel welcome. A good meal tells them this. It tells them, I want you here and I want you to stay for the dessert. Now sit back and let’s talk.

So I will read the cookbooks. Practice. Perfect. I will taste as I cook. I will pay attention to what is in season and cook that. I will not cook from a box. I will learn what herbs and spices taste good with what.

The next time I cook a pork chop, it’s going to be stuffed. Or braised. Or it will be a pork tenderloin instead. But it will be good. And I will invite back my poor friends who suffered through this past meal, to make reparations. 

Because that’s what good food does. It brings people into your home. It speaks.