What’s Missing?

I’ve never considered myself much of a chef. I don’t julienne. I don’t chiffonade. I don’t make foams, reductions, or anything that requires tweezers. 

But a cook? Now that’s a title I’d proudly wear.

When I’m cooking, I really only have one goal; Make enough food that everyone leaves the table full, preferably smiling, and with no one asking, “Is there anything else?” 

That’s the mission, really. And sometimes it works out that way… other times I may end up making four different things.

Over the years, though, I’ve noticed something about the way I cook. I have three ingredients that show up with such alarming regularity that I should probably just buy stock in them.

Lemon.

Garlic.

Cilantro.

At least one of them finds its way into almost everything I make. Usually two. Sometimes all three, because apparently moderation isn’t one of my seasonings. I didn’t realize this until one of the kids looked over while I was cooking and said, “You’re using garlic again?”

Again?

Son, there has never been an again. Garlic never left.

If garlic disappeared from the earth tomorrow, my family would assume we’d entered the End Times.

One day I made a sopita and, for whatever reason, left out the cilantro. Everybody noticed.

“It doesn’t taste the same.”

Not, “This is bad.”

Not, “What’s missing?”

Just… it doesn’t taste the same.

Apparently, somewhere along the way, cilantro became part of our family’s definition of normal.

The funny thing is, these three ingredients each have their own job.

Garlic is the dependable one. It shows up early, gets to work, and quietly carries the whole meal. It’s the foundation.

Lemon is the optimist. It walks in at the end and says, “You know what this needs? A little excitement.” Suddenly everything tastes brighter, lighter, and somehow more alive.

Then there’s cilantro.

Now, I realize cilantro is controversial. Some people love it. Some people insist it tastes like soap. To those people I say… that’s unfortunate. More cilantro for me.

Together, though, they’re magic. Garlic gives you savory depth. Lemon adds the acid that wakes everything up. Cilantro brings a fresh, herbal brightness that keeps the dish from feeling heavy.

It’s like they each cover one corner of the flavor triangle, and when they meet in the middle, dinner just works.

Professional chefs probably have scientific names for all this. They talk about balancing acidity, aromatics, freshness, volatile compounds, and flavor profiles.

I call it, “Throw some lemon, garlic, and cilantro in there.”

Works every time.

These three have followed me through just about every kind of meal imaginable.

They’re just as happy on grilled chicken as they are on shrimp. They make roasted vegetables taste like they were planned instead of obligatory. They’ll rescue a pot of beans, wake up a bowl of rice, and convince potatoes they’ve been living below their potential.

The only things they usually ask for are a little salt and maybe some black pepper or a chile to complete the party. And I do throw those in; the chile mostly for me…

People ask for recipes.

Truth be told, I’ve borrowed plenty. I’ve pulled more recipes off Google than I could ever count. And when the ones I found weren’t quite right, I’d tinker with them until they were. Sometimes that meant a little more garlic, a squeeze of lemon, or a handful of cilantro. Sometimes it meant changing half the recipe before I was satisfied.

I don’t really have recipes anymore. I have tendencies.

Open refrigerator. See lemon. Grab garlic. Reach for cilantro. Begin chopping with confidence that exceeds my actual knowledge.

The truth is, keeping a family fed isn’t about perfection. It’s about consistency. It’s about knowing that after a long day, everyone gathers around the table expecting something that tastes like home.

For my family, home apparently tastes suspiciously like garlic. With a squeeze of lemon. And enough cilantro to make half the internet start an argument.

Some families have secret recipes passed down for generations. We have three ingredients that refuse to stay in the produce drawer for very long.

And honestly…

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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