I am an inflexible tyrant with a fanatical devotion to my aspirations that borders on the delusional

I am a Kitchen Dictator.  This is not a term of endearment.  It is a chronic disorder that has taken hold slowly and is resistant to treatment. Even threats of death or divorce leveled at the sufferer make no impression.  I know that I am an inflexible tyrant with a fanatical devotion to my aspirations that borders on the delusional, but like any addict or victim of compulsions acknowledging the problem doesn’t begin to put a dent in it.  How do I know I am a Kitchen Dictator?  Mostly because people tell me.  At the beginning, there were warnings: “You don’t need to tell me how to slice tomatoes” or “I have cooked rice before.”  Before long however, it became more trenchant: “Back off.” “Couldn’t you do something else while I’m in the kitchen?”

Of course I do not intend to be an insufferable back-seat cook, but a quasi-messianic inner sense of just how something should be done impels me to kibbitz, drop hints, add things behind the other person’s back and generally try to run the show.  I cannot watch someone take ten minutes to chop an onion or peel a potato.  I remember standing by in helpless agony while a friend massacred an avocado by trying to peel it whole from the outside.  The urge to seize the sticky mass from her fingers and recover its dignity as food was almost more than I could bear. 

I hate things to depart from the vivid image I have in my mind

I hate seeing garlic burn, a knife badly used, meat overcooked.  But more than real errors, I hate things to depart from the vivid image I have in my mind.  I know how finely the onions and tomatoes should be chopped.  Just how long they should sauté.  How much salt, whether it needs more acid, a bit of pepper, some wine or five more minutes on the stove.  This is not to say that I cook precisely, far from it.  Or that that anything I make is perfect or even especially good.  It is simply to say that my Platonic ideal of what I am making is so clear before my eyes that I cannot resist the gods and alter my path.  Which is also to say that I am happy to impose my vision on anyone who gets in my way.  I suppose this is how religious evangelists who appear on doorsteps, metro platforms, or shopping malls feel about their mission.  They are only trying to bring the bright light of belief to the unenlightened and ill informed. While others may see them as pushy, intrusive or borderline crazy, they see themselves as messengers of salvation.

I do occasionally try to reason with myself – usually after having insulted and annoyed my spouse – and guilt can have the short-term effect of reining in my most egregious meddling.   But at these times I feel the pull of my ideal at its strongest, luring me to intervene and make things right.  Why do I have such an exacting sense of how and what a dish should be?  I am not a follower of recipes, a purist of any cuisine or even technically skilled.  It is the pull of my thoughts, my vision of what I am creating that admits of no deviation. 

like maniacs of every stripe, I am in love with my obsession

Where do these ideas come from?  When I decide what to make for dinner, or the kind of cake that would be perfect with strawberries, the meal or the cake themselves may be quite ordinary, but my imagination gives them a halo of promise that is as seductive as it is elusive.  Maybe it is that promise that fuels both creativity and intolerance, pushing me to drive as close to the ideal as possible, but never, of course arriving.  I doubt that this exalted rationale would hold water with my family or friends, much like the family and friends of pyromaniacs or stamp collectors who have to put up with the real-life consequences of mania.

Also like maniacs of every stripe, I am in love with my obsession.  In a secret corner of my heart I caress and nurture it, letting it grow into a spoiled and angry demon that demands to have its way. By the clear light of reason I want to be a more flexible person, a team player, a less irritating wife.  But not enough to abandon my creation.  By the dark light of passion I understand Dr. Frankenstein who created a monster because he could not hold back his imagination.