Perhaps you remember Dr. Sagan from the PBS series Cosmos a few years back. Our conversations were for awhile impregnated with his "bil-li-ons and bil-li-ons" of this and that.

I recall watching with fascination as he guided us through the early moments of the Universe - the Big Bang and its aftermath. As Sagan describes it, it was a mess - all sorts of incredibly hot detritus zipping through the as then uncharted vale of space, ionized proto-carbon dropping off hither and yon, cooling into galactic clusters, stars and planets, a remnant background hiss of hydrogen all the reminder we have of unearthly beginnings.

The other night I cooked chicken fried steak for my family. For the regionally untutored among you, this consists of taking cube steak, dipping it in a mixture of bread crumbs, salt, pepper and flour, dousing it in a second mixture of egg and milk, running it through the breading mix once more, then pan frying it. You top it with cream gravy made from the copious leavings in the pan. It is frightfully caloric, studded with cholesterol and possessed of all the carbohydrates you never want to see again. It's delicious.

As I prepared the meal I couldn't help but think of Sagan. I had my own Big Bang - trying to extricate the large frying pan from the stove drawer wherein it resides with 47 other cooking utensils of indiscriminate shapes and sizes. I don't know how my wife gets them in there; but, then, I don't understand how she packs the Honda for vacations, either. Suffice to say by the time I liberated the pan there were considerably fewer (an even dozen, by my count) dishes in the drawer, my fingers and knuckles had a set of incipient bruises to contemplate and nary a soul remained asleep in the apartment complex. Walking in the kitchen demanded a whole new level of dexterity. You don't know how low life can get until you've stepped on a muffin pan in front of a ten-year-old who's planning to make cupcakes for her birthday tomorrow.

Anyone who's ever done any pan frying understands background hiss - the sizzle of the meat as it hits the hot pan, the bubbling simmer of gravy thickening to the perfect texture, the sweet susurrations of burning flesh when you pick up the pan without using the hot pads. Background hiss we had in spades.

By the time I finished there was quite a bit of star stuff - carbon - in the pan, too.

All in all, it was quite the celestial experience. Oh, there was a bit of a mess. I spilled some of the ingredients - okay, I spilled a lot - but what's a nebula but a bit of flour dusting God's kitchen counter? What's a comet but an ice cube that missed the glass?

My daughters see it somewhat more prosaically: "Gee, Dad, couldn't you wait till Mom got home?" "Did you have to cook?" Or, "Sorry, Dad, I'd love to help you clean up but I've got to go baby-sit/do my homework/do the laundry/build an ark/apply for dual citizenship." Cowards. Lovable, but lacking in the fortitude that made Southwest cooking great.

Nevertheless, they cause me to reflect on the differences between my cooking and that of my wife. The distinctions are few and trifling, but evident enough to the trained eye.

My wife's dishes are subtle; they pirouette on the palate, leaving delicate traceries of flavors here and there. My dishes sort of slap the taste buds around - hearty splashes of cayenne and garlic. Life without pepper is only surviving.

We seem to drink more when I cook.

When my wife's the chef there is invariably a moment when someone pauses, a faraway look in his eye, swishes his tongue about his mouth, then a glimmer, a glow, a smile, and a pronouncement: "A dash of sherry, a touch of mint, and a three-day-old lime picked by a left-handed farm worker just south of the Napa Valley, right?" It was actually a half cup of lemonade lost for six months in the back of the fridge, but who's to tell? We congratulate him on his culinary perspicacity.

When I preside in the kitchen, there is invariably a moment when someone pauses, a faraway look in his eye, swishes his tongue about his mouth, then a glimmer, a glow, a panic and a shout, "Water!"

You'd think people had never had curry brownies before.

Kitchen creations are as different as the cooks who offer them. Some are messy, some are neat, some are well-planned, some are improvised from what's left over in the refrigerator. Some are pretty good ideas; some send you back to the cookbook shelf.

Each of our lives is Creation in microcosm, a sacred gift from a loving Creator. The many-colored God who made us is a host of chefs, and we are a banquet in the making. The meal for each of us is our own life, and we are called to flavor it and savor it ourselves. As we live we may add the seasonings of new ideas, new efforts, new relationships.

Sometimes it gets pretty hot in the kitchen, but that's what it takes to make the best meals. Bon appetit!