I'm in the kitchen; bring me the butter.

I am a cook. I've been a cook for as long as I can remember. My grandma put me to work in the kitchen as soon as I was old enough to peel a carrot. I was baking chocolate chip cookies by myself when I was seven years old. I could roast a chicken by the time I was ten. In times of sadness or joy, crisis or celebration, funerals or baptisms, you will find me in the kitchen.

Once, when my sister Vanessa left a message that she had to rush my aunt to the emergency room because she was having symptoms of a heart attack, I tried in vain to contact someone--anyone--by cell phone. When I finally put the phone down, I realized I was in the kitchen. I couldn't fix my aunt's heart. But I could bake some brownies. And roast a pork loin. And make a pot of chicken soup. However things turned out, people would have to eat.

Fortunately, my aunt and her heart were fine. She and my sister came over for dinner. I told them to bring a crowd.

When I was in my 20's, I was in a car accident and suffered a serious neck injury. I stayed with Vanessa in Baltimore and had a multiple level spinal fusion surgery at Johns Hopkins. My sister, Jen (a physical therapist), came down from New York, and other family members rallied around me. A few days after the surgery, I came home to Vanessa's house. I was in a tremendous amount of pain and groggy from medication. But as I walked into the house, I heard talk of a grocery run. Jen said to get some chocolate chip cookies--the good kind from the bakery, not the kind in the package.

And without missing a beat, it became clear to me what needed to be done. I was not able to stand without assistance. I was wearing a neck and back brace. I was under the influence of at least three narcotic drugs. And with great clarity and conviction I declared,

"I'm in the kitchen; bring me the butter."

For a moment, everyone was silent. And then they started laughing. I didn't understand why, even as I shuffled into the guestroom and it took three people to get me into the bed.

A few years ago, I was in a professional kitchen and a pot literally fell on my head, knocking me out. When I regained consciousness, my chef was insisting that I go to the hospital. "But I have a pie in the oven!" I protested. He sat me down with an ice pack while he found someone to drive me the two miles to the nearest hospital. "And the sables! Pull the sables!" I exclaimed as they ushered me out of the kitchen.

As it turned out, my neck had broken. Again.

A friend collected my kitchen tools and came to see me in the emergency room that evening. "Chef said to tell you your sables were perfect. Absolutely perfect." He brought one to show me Chef wasn't saying it just to be nice. They really were perfect. That praise was stronger than the morphine.

The next week was Thanksgiving, and I found myself staying with relatives for the holiday. I was told to wear a neck brace, but was able to manage without one. Still, no one would let me cook or lift anything, which was more painful and upsetting than the injury itself. And as I sat on the couch watching football with the guys, I came up with a plan.

At 3:00 AM, when everyone was sound asleep, I slipped on my robe and tiptoed into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed the butter....