I am a terrible chef; I'm not a good cook. I don't have the

Philip Rosenthal, with warmth and humility, once confessed: “I am a terrible chef; I'm not a good cook. I don't have the talent, the patience, the desire even to cook the way these great artists that I meet around the world cook, and I'm very, very happy to support them. I invest in restaurants because I love them so much.” In these words, he speaks not of failure, but of wisdom—the recognition that one need not master every craft to honor it. Instead, one may find joy in supporting the gifts of others, lifting up those whose talent, patience, and artistry surpass one’s own.

The origin of this reflection lies in Rosenthal’s life as the creator of Everybody Loves Raymond and as the joyful traveler behind Somebody Feed Phil. Though not skilled in the kitchen, he developed a deep love for food and for those who labor to create it. His admiration for chefs and restaurateurs led him not to envy or imitation, but to support and celebration. He reminds us that passion for an art does not always manifest in practice; sometimes, it manifests in stewardship, in nurturing the spaces where greatness can flourish.

History bears witness to this truth. Consider the Medici family of Renaissance Florence. They were not themselves the painters or sculptors of genius, yet by supporting artists like Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and Botticelli, they became midwives to an entire age of rebirth. Their role was not to create, but to invest in creation, to provide the means by which art could illuminate the world. Rosenthal walks in this lineage: though not a chef, he becomes part of the story of food by uplifting those who dedicate their lives to it.

Rosenthal’s words also reveal the virtue of humility. In a world that often worships self-sufficiency and mastery of all things, he admits with joy that cooking is not his strength. Yet rather than despair, he delights in the excellence of others. This humility transforms envy into celebration, competition into admiration. Such a spirit is rare and precious, for it shows that love of an art does not require personal mastery—it requires only reverence and generosity.

Deeper still, he points to the power of patience. Cooking, like many crafts, is not simply skill but the steady labor of time—slow preparation, careful attention, a willingness to endure repetition for the sake of beauty. Rosenthal confesses he does not possess this patience in the kitchen, yet he honors it in those who do. By supporting them, he acknowledges that patience itself is a form of genius, and that society thrives when we make room for different strengths.

The lesson is clear: not everyone is called to create in the same way, but all are called to contribute. If you cannot paint, you can preserve. If you cannot compose, you can listen and share. If you cannot cook, you can still invest, support, and celebrate. Greatness belongs not only to the artist but to the community that sustains them. To recognize your limits is not weakness; it is wisdom. To delight in others’ gifts is not passivity; it is love.

Practical wisdom flows from this truth. Support the crafts you admire, even if you cannot practice them yourself. Attend concerts, purchase books, dine at restaurants, visit galleries. Speak encouragement to those whose patience brings forth beauty. And above all, release the pride that demands mastery in every field—embrace instead the joy of being a patron of artistry, a cultivator of community.

Thus, let Philip Rosenthal’s words endure as a teaching for all: you need not cook to love food, nor paint to love art, nor compose to love music. What matters is that you honor and sustain those who do. In this way, every soul may partake in the eternal work of creation—not always by crafting, but by supporting, celebrating, and cherishing the gifts of others. For the world does not thrive only on creators, but on those who believe enough in creation to ensure it endures.