Mrs., or should I say, Madame Pepin, is, as I remember from that one appearance, Puerto Rican, although now that I think about it, I don't know what that has to do with anything.

It does seem an odd combination, though, doesn't it, French and Puerto Rican. I wonder how they agree on a suitable menu blending the two cuisines.

But although we don't see much of Mrs. Pepin, Jacques' daughter, Claudine, has been a fixture, even though she doesn't get to do much and most of what she does do doesn't appear to meet the master's high standards.

Mostly she says things like "Gee," or "Oh, really?" or "That's neat." And chops onions.

But then I guess she is a chef-in-training. As I get it, it takes a long time for chefs-in-training to get beyond chopping onions.

That's the way it is in French kitchens, the chef is in charge, he is usually a male and he doesn't brook inference from anyone female.

I envy Jacques that. He not only gets to buy what goes into the meal, he plans it, prepares most of it and cooks it and he does it by himself—and very rapidly, I might add.

The reason I bring this up is that I like to cook.

I don't get to do it very often, but now and then when the regular cook in our house gets bored or tired or is otherwise engaged I get to prepare a meal, but it sure isn't like Jacques in his kitchen.

First of all, I almost never get to shop for groceries. This puts an immediate brake on my meal plans. I haven't the vaguest idea what's in the family larder.

When I ask, I'm informed there are carrots, eggplant, some tomatoes, oranges and an apple and maybe an onion.

"Fix something," I'm told.

"Well, I guess I'll go to the store ... " I start to say.

"You don't need to go to the store. You've got all you need right there," I hear.

"OK."

So I start to look in my recipe books for a stir-fry recipe with apples and oranges and vegetables in it.

Then a new sound comes from the living room.

"Oh, and there are some cooked string beans and a little fried potato left over from last night, and a hard-boiled egg. Be sure you use all that up."

None of this fits with my recipe for stir-fry slumgullion, but I have learned to improvise

I start slicing the onion and I look for some garlic.

"And I don't want any garlic in mine," I hear.

No garlic in half the recipe.

"And don't cook it too long. I don't like tomatoes when they get soft. They have to be firm. But they have to be cooked. You know."

"Yeah," I say.

I turn down the heat under the wok. Don't want to get the tomatoes too done.

"You want me to fix a fruit salad?"

"There isn't any fruit left.."

What I really want is not a fruit salad, but sole control of the kitchen, just like Jacques.

"You're kidding."

I start to explain I have incorporated the apple and the orange into the stir fry (an original recipe, I think to myself, just like the chef who invented chicken Marengo for Napoleon), but I hear, "There's some canned fruit salad in the canned-goods cupboard. I'll get it."

The canned-goods cupboard, I have to explain, is filled with all manner of food in cans, saved for the day terrorists blow up the Golden Gate Bridge, the next Deluge comes or nobody gets to the store because of snowdrifts piled up against the front door.

I view it somewhat like Fort Knox. It's full of valuable things I'm not supposed to know about but which I can bank on in an emergency. So far the emergency hasn't arrived, but I have every confidence that someday it will.

So while I am meticulously stirring the stir fry, making sure the tomatoes don't get too soft, but that the rest of it, including the onions, gets done enough, the fruit salad arrives, the cupboard door next to the stove where the can opener is hung is opened, I can't get to the stove, the tomatoes get too soft, garlic gets mixed into everything and, ultimately, for the sake of domestic tranquility, I suggest we go out to The Happi House for a Japanese fast-food dinner.

And there, munching on my brown rice and teriyaki chicken, I wonder if Jacques Pepin ever eats out.

Probably not, but I'll bet his wife does.