“It looks like a frog.”

“It does not look like a frog.”

“Yeah it does. Look, this piece of chicken is one leg; these pieces are the other legs.”

“And I don’t think dinner is supposed to leak.”

My son lifted the paper plate and although the quesadilla stayed put, a thin grey line of grease trickled to the edge. It was soaking through.

“It smells weird, I’m not eating it.”

“It is just spices.”

“I’m still not eating it.”

The cupboard was opened, the Lucky Charms and Coco Puffs in hand.

“I’m having cereal.”

The neighbor boy took a picture on his cell phone. Tiny, through the virtual reflection, my quesadilla did look faintly amphibian. And it did smell a little off.

I am a terrible cook. Not in the cute, new-married-can’t-boil-water sort of way, but in a systemic, colorblind-person-wearing-an-outfit-looking-like-Winky-the-Christmas-Elf sort of way. I have absolutely so instinct, no timing, no sense of direction. My misfires are legendary. The chicken nuggets breaded with honey nut cornflakes, the pancakes made with fruit yogurt instead of milk, the scones left in the oven until there is a quarter inch of char on the bottom. All of these recipe alterations made perfect sense in my head, but some detail in the ingredients or execution inevitably resulted in an inedible, Island of Dr. Moreau food aberration. Out come the Coco Puffs.

My children are not finicky, but they know the difference.

Over New Year’s my husband and a good friend who was visiting had a cooking contest, complete with a boy judge in a bow tie and a ballot matrix. The rest of us—I, the boy who was not a judge, and our other visiting friend—were the lackey entourage, the people who cut up things and ran for more paper towels. I was on my friend’s team. At the store I watched mesmerized as she looked over a sea of green leaves, piles of red meat, and rows and rows of little jars. She would glance at her list, wrinkle her forehead slightly, and reach for something that looked exactly like all the others. “Why that one?” I asked. “It will be delicious,” she said. Assisting them create was like being on television program with real chefs, only smoother, without the shtick. Recipes yes, but a twist, a mix, an edit, a presentation precise and beautiful. And always, everything was delicious.

In spite of the groans and panicked looks when dad is not home and mom is in charge of dinner, I keep trying. It is hard to say what came first: my lack of interest because I have no knack for cooking, or that because I hate it, I take cavalier risks that get me in trouble. Doesn’t matter, really: I don’t like it and I don’t do it well and I do not seem to be improving over the years. In fact, I think I am getting worse.

This inability to improve is ironic. I am paid to teach people how to teach people how to get better at their jobs (which includes selling kitchenware). The conventional approach to employee development has been a doctor/patient relationship: the manager diagnoses problems or weaknesses and then prescribes a solution, ideally motivating the employee to change. Appraisals, coaching, goal-setting all focus on what behavior is not to standard, the “gap” between the desired performance and reality. It doesn’t work. Grown-ups are highly resistant to “gap” critiques.  

There are other leadership theories that have been rippling though business culture for some time, recently gathering fresh momentum and popularity. Appreciative Inquiry is a process by which companies ask what they are doing right, ask how they can keep and value what works as they go forward. Marcus Buckingham and the Gallup Poll group have published several books applying this to an individual level, recommending a manager interview for aptitude, setting goals based on inherent talent, and finding the perfect position or responsibilities to fit an individual’s strengths. Buckingham asserts that managers cannot put in what is not there to start with, but should instead focus on how to get more of what someone does well. A series of books on “flow” looks at the optimal performance experience and strategizes how to stay in the moment longer and engage more frequently. All emphasize positive contribution instead of deficiency.      

A cynic might look at all this “love, peace, and joy” in the workplace and ask for a reality check, stat. Most people are not searching for the “perfect fit” to their strengths; they are just trying to keep a job so they can eat. Most people do not have managers who pay attention to the latest and greatest management guru. In my retail world, people treat their jobs like a way station. They come to us between things—careers, degrees, marriages. Some stay, most move on. Is selling stuff a talent? Is dusting a strength? Can stocking inspire true flow? Many hang their heads, I have no talent, they will say, that is why my parents wonder why I do not have a “real job,” why I am sales clerk and not a doctor, lawyer, or architect.

Then I think of the lady I saw in a Columbus, Ohio, gas station mini-mart. She directed customers to the freshest coffee, pointed out donuts, helped me carry soda cans, rang up gas, refolded maps, offered bags for loose candy, all the while smiling, chatty, genuinely knowledgeable and concerned, everywhere and connected to everyone at once. Did this woman dream as a child that she would work at the BP on the corner? Probably not, but she was not just making the best of a situation; she was really great at her job. Her strengths—multi-tasking, transactional relationship building, educating, crowd control, patience—were all on display. Customers left with incredulous smiles, as if watching a brilliant ice skater spinning a figure eight.   

Natural grace and ability revealed in a context that embraces and benefits from what a specific person does best: all the stars align and I always imagine I hear a chorus crescendo. 

Which brings me back to my cooking. Why do I persist when it is clear there is no gift, no chorus?  When my mother comes to visit she is appalled that I have no idea where anything is. I should know my way around my own kitchen. “Well, it is not really my kitchen.” “Of course it is; you are the woman.” I keep trying because I am encoded to perform in this capacity, whether it makes any sense or not. How many plug away instead of really excel because we lack a particular talent or that the strengths we have are not acceptable by some super-ego voice recorded long ago? My husband baked his first cake from scratch at nine years old. For our first date he made smoked teriyaki pheasant for a picnic. A man who cooks all the dinners, a gas station attendant who makes people happy, these people don’t seem to care how others see their fit. It feels too good to be really good, even at a small thing, even if it goes unnoticed or undervalued.

My husband came home the night of the quesadilla and looked at the now congealed, translucent, underbelly-pale mound.

“I was going to throw that chicken out.”

“How did you know it was rotten? It didn’t look bad.”  

“I just knew.”