No, the headline is not the instructions Abigail, the Lifestyles editor, gave to me when I asked for advice on my column and the direction it was heading.

I was concerned that my writing was taking on a repetitive tone and had become pigeonholed. She was very graceful with her feedback and provided a suggested word count and kindly told me that she’d let me know when I was playing a broken record.

But that leads us to the meaning of the headline. Although a great description of me, by and large, it comes from a very humbling Fourth of July kitchen moment with my grandmother, “Gran.” Gran was an excellent cook, but it didn’t stop there. She was also a very talented baker. Believe it or not, there is a polarizing distinction between the two. I’ll touch on that in a bit, but for now I’ll get to the point.

Back in the late 1900s when I was a spry young man at the age of 20, I was home for the Fourth of July to spend the holiday with family. Being right on the cusp of becoming an actual chef, I couldn’t wait to share my new kitchen techniques including the lingo in which I had become so adept.

I was working at the City Grocery in Oxford at the time and I was fascinated by the other chefs. I absorbed everything like a sponge, and boy was I intrigued by the way they spoke. I was intent on becoming one of them and my determination was steadfast. Little did I realize, my over inflated ego was in quick pursuit.

The standard Fourth of July fare was on the menu that weekend including grilled steaks. In order to add a little class to the joint I decided to make my recently learned bordelaise. All hands were on deck including Gran, helping make way for the anticipated celebration.

She and I were sharing the kitchen while still learning a lot about one another. She was dicing potatoes while I added the final touches to my sauce. Here was my chance. My culinary jargon was waiting with bated breath. Not only was my grandmother, the old guard of the kitchen, about to taste the greatest sauce of her life, but I was about to explain just how the magic happened.

As we stood at the stove top together I explained my ingredients and the steps I had taken. I stirred my sauce, turned down the heat, looked at her and said, “now you reduce it down.” Surely she had never heard such a phrase. That kind of talk most certainly had to be reserved for gourmet kitchens.

Her pity diced me like her potatoes. Then she said with her thick southern drawl, “that’s redundant.” The implication being that I could have simply said “reduce it.” At that point I’m pretty sure my ego was catching a ride back to Oxford while I was being reduced to the “grandson not yet a chef,” in two words.

I wish she were around today so that I could share with her all of the interesting things I’ve learned over the years while working in professional kitchens. Despite it all, I am without doubt that she could still educate me on what, why, and how things should be done or said in the kitchen.

Which brings me back around to what makes cooking so different from baking. Baking is science. There is no debating its assiduity. Cooking is art, with a little bit of salt and pepper.

When baking, you don’t stray from recipes or their measurements. Temperatures must be precise and you DO NOT open the oven once baking has commenced. Just ask my wife Shannon about her crater-shaped cornbread. In my defense, I just wanted to take a peek. I never claimed to be a baker.

My mother in-law, Carolyn, is a dual threat. She has mastered both disciplines. I always look forward to eating what she has cooked and her baking is second to none. Her deft hand with caramel icing is nothing short of masterful. Combined with the delicate nature of her perfectly baked cake, one bite will remind you that this is no novice skill. I firmly believe that cooking can be taught, but with baking, you either got it or you don’t.

By the time you cast your gaze at my little corner of this paper, the fireworks will have popped and the grill will be covered. If you’re like me, you’ll have leftovers, and hopefully whatever is sitting on my counter top covered in tin foil was baked by my mother in-law.

I don’t remember if Gran liked my bordelaise, but that’s OK, because I’ll always remember that moment. And who would have thought such an astute phrase could so eloquently describe my muddled thoughts?

I made sure to re-count the word count for this recount. But before you can say it, I already know, “that’s redundant.”

Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist and is currently the general manager of a local landscaping company. Bowen writes in his free time and is working on a book about his experiences and travel.