Did y’all know that cooking is basically just strategically drying your food to a preferred edible status? That’s it. That’s the whole operation. We’ve spent centuries building cuisines, writing cookbooks, and inventing culinary arts, but at the end of the day, we’re just negotiating with moisture.

Ever notice how we describe our food like it survived something? “Crispy.” “Golden.” “Seared.” “Charred.” That’s not comfort language — that’s post-battle terminology. We’re applauding dinner for making it through the heat.

Think about it — frying? Violent evaporation, a dramatic breakup between food and water that we romanticize because it smells good. 

Baking? Slow, elegant dehydration. 

Grilling? Outdoor dehydration therapy with char marks and bravado. 

Roasting? Dehydration with a tan. 

Even boiling, which sounds like a wet activity, is really a trick — a little culinary stock market where water is traded in and out of the food. And yet, every time, we call it “perfectly cooked” instead of “successfully dried.”

And seasoning — oh, that’s the diplomacy of the process. Salt, fat, acid, and sugar don’t just make things taste good; they’re emotional support agents for your ingredients, helping them cope with the trauma of dehydration. Because seasoning is the cover-up. It convinces us we’ve transformed our ingredients rather than simply rearranged their water content. It’s culinary stagecraft: smoke, mirrors, and a sprinkle of paprika.

A good sauce? Therapy in liquid form — reintroducing just enough moisture to whisper, “There, there, little chicken breast, you’ve been through a lot.” 

Butter and oil are illusionists’ assistants, stepping in with a wink and a swirl to make everything look glossy and alive again. 

Herbs and garlic? Misdirection. They keep your taste buds busy while the texture quietly tightens.

And then there are the chefs. Masters of mise en place and serious faces, wielding whisks like swords, speaking in half-English, half-French, and judging your taste buds with a glare that could curdle milk. They call it “craft.” We call it “dramatic water management.” Somehow, watching them plate a single carrot slice like a Michelangelo sculpture convinces us we’re witnessing magic, when really it’s just cleverly hydrated, expertly disguised, and heavily buttered vegetables.

Then there are the home cooks — true gladiators of the kitchen. They improvise with what’s in the fridge, juggle screaming toddlers and smoke detectors, and somehow produce dinner that isn’t cardboard. They know the shortcuts, the tricks, the “good enough” that still tastes like love.

And the grill masters — kings and queens of backyard smoke and fire. They treat charcoal and propane like fine instruments, flipping burgers with surgical precision and seasoning ribs like they’re painting the Sistine Chapel. Somehow, they convince us charred edges are flavor, not dehydration gone rogue.

At its core, cooking is chemistry. 

In practice? Theater — a sensory magic trick where heat does the work, and seasoning gets the applause.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com —stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.