At last, in an article in a recent Food Section of the Big City Daily, I learned of a culinary category in which I belong. Jim Peterson, a cookbook author, brags that he never cooks the same thing twice. I haven't seen his book, but I gather that "Vegetables" is more of a collection of ideas than recipes.

A publisher, however, is going to require that information be specific enough to pin to the printed page. He won't let a writer get away with "some balsamic vinegar, more or less," but will insist on 1/4 cup or 3 tablespoons.

Nonetheless, the reviewer went shopping with the author, watched him saute, and pronounced: "Cooking with Jim Peterson is deliciously of the moment."

My kind of cook, "of the moment." I am the despair of a friend who plans a week's meals, writes down ingredients before setting off to market, then makes her purchases accordingly. On Tuesday, she cooks the very meal she planned 'way back on Thursday when she went shopping.

I am awed, but totally bemused.

Dave does most of our shopping because the list is pretty much the same from week to week: staples, plus whatever's on sale or looks good. I shop every five or six weeks to stock the things he wouldn't think of: garbanzo beans, black olives, artichoke hearts, couscous, vegetable-colored rotini, cornmeal, sun-dried tomatoes, basmati rice.

Come mealtime, I scan the lazy-Susan, plumb the fridge for left-overs, and something will suggest itself. Never fails. Why, just reading that off-the-top-of-my-head list above, I can think of a wonderful salad or soup meal.

(My formula: a salad is something anything! on Romaine with oil and vinegar dribbled over it. Soup is the very same thing floating in hot bouillon or miso broth.)

I've never been mistaken for a great cook, but occasionally I am asked for the recipe of a dish I've brought to a potluck such as The Citizen staff throws itself once a month.

That puts me on a spot. I'm flattered, of course, and valiantly want to comply, but typically have only the vaguest notion how much of this or that went into the dish. When I demur, I'm not being coy. I'm just reluctant to commit that it was only a quarter cup of balsamic when it could have been three times that.

Only sheer good luck got me through last week's office potluck. I hadn't planned to go. I'd been in bed for two days with a horrible cold or whatever was "going around." You either had it or heard about it: sore throat, headache, congestion, teary eyes, inability to concentrate, finally a hideous cough and aching chest.

But on Wednesday morning I rose, nay, was resurrected from my deathbed with that wonderful sense of disbelief that often follows illness: never thought I'd feel so good again. I was downright invigorated although not enough to make a trip to the store. Not to worry, I thought grandly, browsing the shelves. There's plenty here.

So before I even had breakfast, I began a tabouli salad. The flavors need to meld, and while the bulgur soaked, I chop-chopped away. The only traditional ingredients this tabouli was going to miss were green onions and cucumbers, but I even had a sweet Vidalia.

Soon tomatoes, fresh parsley and mint, Vidalia, and garlic were heaped in my biggest stainless steel bowl.

One recipe says combine veggies and bulgur and let sit, then add oil and the juice of half a lime or lemon at the last minute. Another says marinate the cracked wheat in the oil and lemon juice and add veggies at the last minute.

With inconsistency like that, I shrugged and threw everything in together, plus fresh ground pepper, seasoned salt, and a toss of oregano.

Stirred it quickly, tasted it. Bleghhhh! Like damp sawdust. Was the lime stale? I juiced the second half, reached for cumin and more salt.

Bleggghhh! No better. Totally flat. I can't believe this. Add the juice of a big fat new lemon, throw in some nice feta cheese with cracked peppercorns, some tangy olives, a splash of hot sauce. Now try.

The same. Dazed, I reached into the fridge and poured my orange juice while I contemplated this mystery.

And solved it. The orange juice too had no flavor whatsoever. I went to find some toothpaste, and was astounded to discover that all I could sense was the slight coolness of the mint. Whether from the flu or the onslaught of lozenges on taste buds, my sense of taste was gone.

Now, of course, I faced the possibility that on my kitchen counter stood a bowl of the most highly-seasoned tabouli salad in the history of the world. I had no way of knowing whether it was even edible.

Ever the adventurer, I added a can of drained garbanzos and some chopped sun-dried tomatoes, transferred the by-now huge salad into a serving bowl, and when I got to the office, slipped it covertly onto the table.

As the staff ate, I watched and listened carefully, and finally heard what I was waiting for: "Mmmm. Did you try the tabouli? It's great. Who brought it? I want that recipe."

Sorry. Cooking with me is definitely "of the moment."

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