Franklin Taggart's Blog

We have a rule in our house that whoever doesn't cook the meal does the dishes. While it seems fair on the surface, I'm not so sure. I'm a one pot kind of guy, and I tend to clean as I go most of the time, so that by the time I serve, there won't be a sink full of dishes other than the ones we eat from. My wife is a chef. The table is her canvas, and the kitchen her palette. We own three generations worth of cooking utensils of every variety, and I'm pretty sure that she uses most of them whenever she cooks. Now the bellywaddin' that I cook is comforting and filling. It won't show up on any Food Network shows, but for a hungry family it'll do just fine. Monica's meals are much more of a craft. She never uses recipes, except to bake, and she follows her whims and inspiration until there is a hearty, world class meal on the table. She's Italian, so most of the time it's Mangia! time around our house, which means that when she cooks, I do the di

I spent years trying to find myself, know myself, be myself, realize my best self...self, self, self. It almost feels like I spent my growing up years trying on clothes, and forgetting to take the suits off that didn't fit until I was left with a walking closet of layer upon layer of who I thought I was. The weight was unbearable, and carrying all the layers for the years that I did created problems to solve, situations to figure out, relationships to control, dominate or avoid, and the more I thought I knew, the more lost I really felt. The peeling began in 1998. It wasn't external circumstances that demanded the change, it was completely internal. I had good things, good friends, good work...all the stuff that I thought would make me happy, and I felt miserable and empty. I had carried a deep belief for many years that finding a mate was going to fix the emptiness, so I had been on a quest to find such a one. I felt such an urgency and pressure, and ultimately a lot of pain a

In 1993 I went through a divorce. I was 30, restless, scared, and clueless. All of the crutches I'd leaned on - relationships, friendships, church, work - were one by one being removed, some by my doing, others by fate. In the midst of all the instability I rediscovered my love of music. One Sunday I went to CT Pepper's in Broadripple and signed up to play in the blues jam. That was the night I met Phil. Phil was the bass player in the house band for the jam. He was a tall, charismatic guy who made me laugh, and he was also instantly encouraging me to play the guitar like I meant it. I played a set, and had a blast. It was the first time that I had played in public in several years. Since there were a handful of bass players there that night, Phil didn't have to play much, so we hung out, had beers and talked. We became fast friends. It's impossible not to love a guy who hands down had the best Harry Caray impression. One of the things we found in common was that we