A few years ago I accidentally dumped an entire five-quart Dutch oven of coq au vin into the back of a friend’s oven.

Wine. Chicken. Mushrooms. Pearl onions.

Everywhere.

I stood there in stunned silence, quietly contemplating whether I should just fly back to California that night. Nine hungry guests in the other room, blissfully unaware of what had just taken place. My buddy stood there next to me, and, after making a careful assessment of the situation, handed me a beer and said,

“It’s called cooking.”

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