Olivia: The average American spends more time watching other people cook on TV than they do actually cooking themselves. We spend a grand total of twenty-seven minutes a day preparing our own food. That's it. Jackson: Twenty-seven minutes! That’s less time than it takes to watch a single episode of a cooking competition show. Olivia: Exactly. So what did we lose when we handed our kitchens, and our time, over to corporations? It turns out, we may have lost a crucial piece of our humanity. Jackson: That’s a huge claim. But it’s a question that sits right at the heart of Michael Pollan's incredible book, Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation. Olivia: It is. And this is the same author who took us deep inside the food industry with The Omnivore’s Dilemma. What’s so compelling about Cooked is that it came after he’d exposed all the problems with industrial food. He realized the missing link in the chain wasn't just about where our food comes from, but the transformative act of cooking itself. Jackson: And he really went all in. He didn't just read about it from a distance. Olivia: Not at all. He apprenticed himself to masters of the four classical elements: fire with a barbecue pit master, water with a braising expert, air with a baker, and earth with fermenters. That journey became both this book and a hugely popular documentary series, which really cemented these ideas in our culture. Jackson: Okay, but I have to be honest, Olivia. Twenty-seven minutes sounds pretty efficient to me. We're all busy. Isn't this just the classic argument for specialization? I remember reading an op-ed by the Zagats, the restaurant guide people, who basically said we should all work an extra hour at our jobs and let restaurants do what they do best. Why bother?

Olivia: That is the perfect question, because it’s the one our entire modern food system is built on. And Pollan’s answer is that cooking isn't just another task to be outsourced, like getting your oil changed. It’s something far more fundamental. He points to the work of a Harvard anthropologist, Richard Wrangham, who has this powerful "cooking hypothesis." Jackson: A cooking hypothesis? What does that mean? Olivia: Wrangham argues that the turning point in human evolution wasn't just when we started eating meat, but when we started cooking it. Cooking food over a fire essentially externalizes part of our digestion. It breaks down tough fibers and proteins before they even enter our bodies. Jackson: Whoa, so you're saying my stove is basically an external stomach that fueled human evolution? Olivia: In a way, yes! Because our bodies no longer had to spend so much energy on digestion, that energy was freed up to build something else: a bigger, more complex brain. Our guts got smaller, our brains got bigger, and our jaws and teeth shrank because we didn't need to spend all day chewing raw food. As the old saying goes, "no beast is a cook." Cooking is what separated us from the apes. It’s our original superpower. Jackson: That’s a wild thought. It completely reframes the act of turning on a burner. Olivia: It does! There’s a wonderful, almost mythical story from the 18th-century writer Charles Lamb that Pollan shares. It’s about a boy in ancient China named Bo-bo, who accidentally burns down his family’s cottage with a litter of piglets inside. Jackson: Oh no. Poor Bo-bo. And poor piglets. Olivia: Well, as he’s poking through the ashes, he touches one of the burnt piglets, scorches his fingers, and instinctively puts them in his mouth. And for the first time in human history, he tastes crackling—crispy, rendered pork skin. It’s so delicious that he and his father start "accidentally" burning down their house over and over again just to roast pigs. Jackson: That’s hilarious. And probably not great for the local real estate market. Olivia: Not at all. But the story perfectly captures the magic of transformation that cooking represents. It's this alchemy that turns something raw and unappealing into something delicious and nourishing. It’s a discovery so profound it was worth burning a house down for. Jackson: I can see that. But if cooking is so fundamental to our biology, if it's this magical act that made us human, why did we give it up so easily? Why are we at twenty-seven minutes a day? Olivia: That’s what Pollan calls the "Cooking Paradox." We've never been more obsessed with food. We have entire TV networks dedicated to it, celebrity chefs are household names, our social media feeds are full of beautiful food pictures. We are fascinated by the idea of cooking. Jackson: But we're not actually doing it. We're watching it. Olivia: Exactly. We’re outsourcing the labor but still consuming the spectacle. Pollan suggests this isn't just a passing trend. He thinks it’s a sign of a deep, unfulfilled longing. We’re watching others do something that we instinctively feel we should be doing ourselves. We miss the satisfaction, the connection, the simple creative act of making something for the people we love. We've become spectators in our own kitchens. Jackson: That hits a little too close to home. I’ve definitely spent an hour watching a complex recipe video only to end up ordering a pizza. Olivia: We all have. And to really understand what we're missing when we do that, Pollan argues we need to go back to the very beginning. We need to look at the most primal, the most fundamental form of cooking there is: Fire.

Jackson: Fire. Okay, so we're talking grilling, right? Burgers and hot dogs? Olivia: We're talking about something much deeper. Pollan travels to North Carolina, to the heart of whole-hog barbecue country. This is a world with very, very serious rules. The motto at one famous place, the Skylight Inn, says it all: "If it’s not cooked with wood, it’s not Bar-B-Q." Jackson: They have a motto? I love that. But what kind of rules are we talking about? Olivia: Oh, the rules are everything. They debate endlessly about what kind of wood to use—hickory versus oak. They argue about the sauce—is it vinegar-based or tomato-based? They argue about whether you should cook the whole hog or just the shoulder. To an outsider, it seems completely arbitrary. Jackson: Yeah, I was going to say, why does any of that matter? As long as it tastes good, who cares if they used oak or hickory? Olivia: That's the key insight. Pollan realizes that the rules aren't really about the food. They're about defining a community. He tells the story of Ed Mitchell, a legendary African American pit master who is treated with the reverence of a high priest. For him, barbecue isn't a recipe; it's a ritual passed down through generations. Jackson: A high priest of pork. I like it. Olivia: And his tradition has a very specific set of practices. When you follow those practices, you are part of his community. When you don't—when you use a gas grill or the wrong kind of sauce—you're an outsider. You're making something else. As they say, "Okay, but that’s not barbecue." Jackson: Ah, so it's a social code disguised as a recipe! The rules are like a secret handshake for a club. It's not about the handshake itself, it's about proving you belong. Olivia: Precisely. The barbecue isn't just a meal; it's a social event that reinforces identity. It's what brings the community together for holidays, funerals, and political rallies. And the pit master, the person who controls the fire and transforms the animal into a feast for the community, holds a position of immense respect. It’s a role that echoes ancient traditions. Jackson: It makes me think of the Greek myths, like Prometheus stealing fire from the gods to give to humans. The person who controls the fire has the power. Olivia: Pollan makes that exact connection! The pit master is a modern Prometheus. He mediates between the raw and the cooked, between nature and culture. He takes this whole animal—a powerful symbol of life and death—and through the alchemy of fire and smoke, turns it into something that nourishes and unites the community. It's a profound responsibility. Jackson: And it’s a responsibility that has become incredibly difficult in the modern world. I read that Ed Mitchell faced huge challenges trying to stick to his traditional methods. Olivia: He did. He was a vocal critic of the industrial pork industry, advocating for heritage breeds raised on pasture. He believed the flavor and soul of barbecue came from a well-raised animal. And he paid a price for it, facing financial and legal troubles that many believe were orchestrated because he challenged the corporate system. His story is a microcosm of the entire book's theme: the fight to preserve authentic, meaningful cooking in a world that prizes convenience and profit above all else.

Jackson: So we started with this idea that we're just too busy to cook, that it's an inefficient chore we should happily outsource. But what Pollan is really showing us is that when we do that, we're not just outsourcing labor. We're outsourcing community, we're outsourcing ritual, and we're outsourcing a fundamental connection to nature and to each other. Olivia: That is the absolute heart of it. And he closes the book with this beautiful, powerful concept that ties it all together. He travels to Korea to learn how to make kimchi from a woman named Hyeon Hee Lee. She tells him that in Korean cooking, there are two kinds of taste: "tongue taste" and "hand taste." Jackson: Tongue taste and hand taste? What’s the difference? Olivia: "Tongue taste," she says, is the basic, universal flavor profile. Salt, sweet, sour. She says, "McDonald’s has tongue taste." It’s consistent, it’s industrial, it’s predictable. Anyone can make it. Jackson: Okay, I'm with you. So what is hand taste? Olivia: "Hand taste," she explains, is the unique signature of the cook. It’s the little idiosyncrasies, the way one person massages the spice paste into the cabbage differently than another. It’s the result of care, of thought, of a person’s presence and intention. It cannot be faked or industrialized. And as Pollan realizes in that moment, "hand taste" is the taste of love. Jackson: Wow. That’s… that’s it, isn't it? That's the whole argument. Olivia: It’s the ultimate answer to your "why bother?" question. We bother because cooking is one of the last, best ways we have to offer something of ourselves. In a world of mass-produced everything, a home-cooked meal is a radical act of generosity. It’s a declaration of independence. It's putting your own "hand taste" back into the world. Jackson: It makes you think... what's one meal you could cook this week, not for efficiency or for Instagram, but just for the sake of making it yourself? For the hand taste. Olivia: A perfect question to ponder. This is Aibrary, signing off.