I'm a bit of a dynamite fisherman when it comes to cooking as I

Hear the words of Alexander Gilkes, who, with wit and humility, declared: “I’m a bit of a dynamite fisherman when it comes to cooking as I don’t have the patience, but I am a huge foodie.” Though his words are playful, they reveal an ancient truth: that desire alone is not enough, and that mastery is often bound not to passion but to patience. To love the feast is one thing; to prepare it with steady hands and a patient spirit is another. Thus he speaks for many who yearn for the banquet yet falter in the kitchen of life.

The image of the dynamite fisherman is a vivid one. It is the man who, lacking patience to cast the net and wait upon the sea, hurls an explosive to bring the catch quickly to the surface. It is an act of urgency, of haste, of force rather than of quiet craft. And so with Gilkes in his cooking—he confesses to the spirit that wants the result without enduring the process. Yet even in this confession, there is beauty: he admits the gap between love and practice, between passion and patience. And in doing so, he reflects the eternal struggle of humankind.

For consider the tale of the painter Caravaggio, whose genius burned bright but whose temper was quick and violent. He loved the art of painting, yet often lacked the patience for discipline, for the careful work of building bonds and stability in his life. His works are immortal, but his days were turbulent, cut short by his own unrest. Contrast this with Leonardo da Vinci, whose curiosity and patience led him to linger over studies of light, anatomy, and invention. One rushed like dynamite, the other unfolded like a slow-growing tree. Both left marks upon history, but in different ways—one explosive, one enduring.

The lesson is not to despise the Gilkes-like heart that longs for the feast without the waiting, but to recognize that true fulfillment demands balance. To be a foodie is to savor the richness of life, to love beauty, taste, and creation. Yet if one cannot endure the fire of the stove or the slowness of the simmer, one must seek patience, or else forever depend upon the labor of others. Thus, the joy of receiving must be tempered with the discipline of giving, the delight of consuming with the wisdom of creating.

History is filled with kingdoms and men who sought shortcuts, who fished with dynamite instead of nets. The Mongols swept across Asia in a storm, conquering with explosive force, but many of their dominions dissolved quickly. Rome, however, built with patience, laying road upon road, law upon law, until its legacy endured centuries beyond its fall. Both loved the feast of empire, but only one learned the art of slow cooking. So too in our own lives: what is seized in haste may satisfy for a moment, but what is nurtured in patience nourishes for a lifetime.

And yet, let us not mock the spirit of urgency, for there is power even in it. Sometimes the world does require swift action, bold strokes, the courage to act without waiting. The dynamite fisherman is not without his place. But if his way becomes our only way, we lose the depth of mastery and the sweetness that comes only from the long simmer. The wise soul learns when to be dynamite, and when to be the patient cook.

Therefore, O seekers, let the counsel be this: cultivate patience in what you love. If you are a foodie, dare also to cook, not only to eat. If you are a dreamer, dare also to labor. If you are one who longs for beauty, dare also to wait upon its slow unfolding. Begin with small acts—chop slowly, stir gently, let the fragrance rise in its own time. In life, as in the kitchen, patience turns raw into ripe, and chaos into art.

So let Gilkes’ playful confession stand as both humor and wisdom. He shows us that love without patience is incomplete, that appetite without discipline is but half a feast. Embrace the joy of tasting, but also learn the virtue of preparing. For the greatest banquet is not only in the eating, but in the journey from fire to flavor, from effort to delight. And this, O children of tomorrow, is the true gospel of the table.