I am not a good cook. Oh I’m sure I could say that I would be good if I did it more, but that’s empty. There are scads of activities I could vainly predict my own success at, if I were interested enough in them to do them more. What counts is not what I think or say, but what I do.

When I enjoy cooking I work without a recipe. I’m too impatient to read instructions – that’s probably why I don’t get excited about new electronics. So I write poetry but rarely read it. I started a business without any schooling in it. And I launched this blog with energy and without reading the blogs of others.

My memorable culinary adventures were experiments. I enjoyed making sculptures out of bread dough, up to the time I wove the basket. I have almost perfected matzo pizza for vegetarian Seders. And I had a lot of fun running soup experiments.

I like to make a meal-hearty soup out of whatever ingredients are around. During the 80s it was one of the ways I avoided the stresses of my blended family; I’d retreat behind the bar in that lovely North Berkeley kitchen, and I’d make a batch out of what I found in pantry and fridge. Leaving the house for additional ingredients was not allowed. I learned I could make good soup every time, provided I had an onion. That’s right: onion was the indispensable ingredient. I could do without garlic, carrots, celery, beans, corn, tomatoes, but I just couldn’t work up a tasty liquid unless I had an onion.

I’ll admit there were other ingredients that were good to add. My soup always has a little coffee in it. I’m rarely inspired to start unless I have at least one potato to dice into it. And it is very nice to include wild rice in a soup that will be reheated like mine always are. It gets nuttier with repeated cooking.

Oh, and pizza should be ironic! When you make your pizza dough, add a pinch of rye.