On July 2nd—Day Two of what I call The Great Un-Working—I sat down with my morning notebook to map out this new chapter of my life.
One goal made the list in bold ink: Learn to Cook.
At seventy, I was adding a skill most people master before they’re old enough to drive.
Before you judge me, understand our household ecosystem. Lori is a phenomenal cook. For decades, she’s made meals so effortless and delicious that restaurants seem unsatisfying.
My contribution to the culinary arts during my bachelor years–tuna mixed into Kraft Mac & Cheese. Let’s just say I wasn’t threatening her spot on the Food Network.
But retirement changed the equation. I’m officially off the clock while Lori is still working. And I had a lovely thought: Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she came home after a long day to find dinner waiting?
“What do you want to make?”
I had no idea. Apparently, the first step in learning to cook is deciding what to cook. Who knew?
Finally, the autumn air delivered inspiration: Traditional Beef Stew.
I sprang into action. And by action, I mean research.
I raided Lori’s cookbooks, cross-referenced recipes, watched several YouTube chefs sear beef, and consulted AI to scale everything down to two servings. I typed up comprehensive briefing notes and compiled a master grocery list. Somewhere, a NASA engineer was making beef stew with less paperwork.
And here is the real kicker about that “master grocery list”: I didn’t even go to the store.
While I was hunkered down in my office treating root vegetables like a classified Pentagon operation, Lori quietly took my over-engineered list, drove to the grocery store, and bought every single ingredient. I had turned buying carrots and chuck roast into an academic thesis, and my wife still had to do the actual shopping.
Around hour three of my research phase, a thought finally penetrated the fog: Patrick, millions of people do this every day. It’s beef stew, not rocket science.
I had enough research to teach a master class in beef stew. Lori had already secured the supplies. Unfortunately, dinner still required cooking.
Why do we do this? We spend decades becoming competent in our careers—the people with the answers. Then we try something unfamiliar, and we’re suddenly terrified of looking like beginners. So we research, organize, and over-plan. Anything to postpone the moment we actually have to try.
Sunday afternoon arrived. With the groceries sitting on the counter, I had officially run out of ways to stall. It was time to stop studying stew and make some.
The photo collage above tells the story. Look at my furrowed brow and white-knuckled grip on the knife, as if one wrong cut might trigger a national emergency. I was cubing chuck roast with the concentration of a brain surgeon. I was one ruler away from measuring the carrots.
And like the grocery trip, I didn’t cross the finish line alone.
Lori stood beside me with patient guidance and quiet encouragement. She let me take the lead, nudged me to follow the recipe, adjust the heat, and resisted the entirely reasonable temptation to laugh at my surgical meat-chopping. She didn’t take over. She helped me learn.
At 5:30 p.m.—as the stove clock beside our blue Dutch oven recorded—we had actual, honest-to-goodness Traditional Beef Stew.
And you know what? It was delicious.
That blue Dutch oven taught me something no computer ever could: you don’t have to be good at something to begin. You just have to be willing to begin so you can get good at it.
On the Fly Wisdom:
Ditch the Lab Coat: Over-preparing is just procrastination dressed up as productivity. Stop watching videos and start chopping carrots.
Wear the Apron: Humility is the admission price for learning anything new. If you’re unwilling to look foolish at any age, you’ll miss out on wonderful experiences—and some very good stew.
Let Someone Help: Asking for guidance isn’t admitting defeat (especially when she’s already bought the groceries). The best part of a new adventure is sharing the kitchen with someone who knows the way.
Confidence Comes After the Mess: You won’t find confidence in your briefing notes. You’ll find it when you ladle that first bowl and hand it to someone you love.
So, what’s on your list that you’ve been treating like a NASA launch?
Take it from a guy who thought he needed an engineering degree to cube a potato: stop waiting to feel qualified. Ask for help, laugh at yourself, relax, and get a good Dutch oven.
I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask better questions, and remember: life doesn’t begin when you’ve figured everything out. Sometimes, it begins when you finally turn on the stove.
I’ll see you — On the Fly.
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