It’s only nine a.m. and I’m hungry. How about a dish of prose?

Cooking must be America’s most discussed topic. I Googled spaghetti carbonara. Man knoweth not how many recipes are available online but I suspect thousands – authentic, original, traditional, easy, vegan (vegan?), fusion, confusion… Campbell’s wants you to make it with their soup and Hellmann’s with their mayonnaise. I rate Hellmann’s Mayonnaise among the world’s wonders – no supermarket competitor comes close and I suspect few hand-done versions (and mayonnaise is a pain to make) – Heinz’s ketchup (original) and Haagen-Dasz’s coffee chocolate chip I adjudge comparably incomparable – but mayonnaise as the basis for a Carbonara? Let’s move on.

I am the cook in our household, which I mention repeatedly because it redounds (slightly) to my credit. When I was a kid, no man cooked unless he was a chef (French or Italian) in which case he was probably a lech, lush, or you-know-what. A real man in training, I disdained cooking. My mom did too, but that was a status thing – we had a cook – and cook’s night off was fasten-your-seatbelt time because my mom really couldn’t cook – and eating out at a restaurant was unheard of. I remember two restaurants in my hometown – one Italian, one Chinese – not including bars that slung burgers. These days, per TripAdvisor, there are at least 68 restaurants in Mount Kisco, each with its specials, discounts, extras, and that doesn’t include McDonald’s, Starbucks, or other fast-food outlets.

As a dad I cooked one dish – Spaghetti Carbonara – because dads were expected to cook one, which they could boast about. Most dads grilled outdoors, but that’s never been my thing, too much smoke, grime, and hoopla, not to mention isolation from the fun. Then, age fifty, I ran away from home – I’m a late bloomer – and eating out when you’re separated only compounds gloom, not to mention cost, so I learned to feed myself adequately, which meant learning at least a few dishes, because my palate’s picky.

Then came Jane, who, for all her brilliance and beauty, doesn’t cook – anything – ever – though she’s an eager eater. Needless to say, a-courting I presented myself as a cook – which enhanced my appeal, maybe sealed the deal. That I exaggerated my capabilities, while culpable, is hardly unusual -- swains are never the swans advertised. My romantic good fortune hurried me into a remedial culinary education, for I dread displeasing, Jane especially.

I would be a keen cook if one could prepare an edible meal in fifteen minutes. One can’t, unless you submit to soup and sandwiches as your invariable fare. Cooking well takes time which must be deducted, in my case, from writing and reading. I have friends who find cooking calming, even soul-suffusing; I bless their enthusiasm and covet their invitations. My ambition is to eat well, having cooked quickly.

Enter our lives, a few months ago, at my request, a chef-grade wok. Now I know there is a God. I can make a delicious dinner in, not fifteen, but twenty-five minutes, start to finish, rice included. Dice fresh ingredients – mostly non-fattening – heat fast – pour on a sauce of chopped ginger, garlic, soy, rice vinegar, and brown sugar – and wow, I made that? Little old me? Bless Asia! And not many dishes to scrub after.

My wok, true, like any prima donna, insists on special handling. No vulgar mingling with humbler tableware in the sweltering dishwasher, no subjection to stridulous detergents, My Lady Wok must be rubbed down, oiled, and toweled by her enamored wooer lest she revolt into rust.

But she’s worth it.