By Paul Reidinger

IF NECESSITY IS the mother of invention, then poverty is the father. I know this because I have been, at various times in my life, poor – and yet, vexingly, I still got hungry and had to scare up something to eat. Lack of money is, like its close relation lack of food, deeply preoccupying – a fact many of us, I suspect, are at some risk of becoming reacquainted with, as so many dreams of phony-baloney affluence evaporate before our eyes. Fortunately, it's not nearly as hard to come by a good meal as it is a good job, at least if you're willing to cook for yourself. And that isn't as hard, or as scary, as it sounds.

Recently I had lunch with a friend who grew up in modest ("peasant" was actually the word we agreed on) circumstances, in a household sustained by the day-in, day-out cooking – the peasant cooking – of the matriarch. Her children eventually grew up and made their way into the wide world, but of all the siblings, only my friend learned how to cook, and consequently he is the only one of his mother's children who hasn't been sucked into the neon-lit, dazzlingly advertised void of the food "industry." The rest of the clan subsist on KFC chicken wings and McDoubles – those edible badges of American upmarket aspiration – and of course they are overweight, while the matriarch's unwritten, old-country recipes seem likely to die with her. It's hard to say which is the greater catastrophe. Obesity is by far the greatest public health crisis in the country today: bigger than smoking, HIV, anthrax. But the loss of ancient know-how, especially as it pertains to food, is a loss almost beyond measuring.

As someone who eats in restaurants a great deal, I am here to tell you that a steady diet of restaurant food, or for that matter any prepared food, just isn't good for you. You never really can be sure what's in there, besides butter, but you can be pretty sure that it's too rich, too oily, and that there is too much of it. The best prepared meal can never take the place of a simple pot of white beans, simmered for an hour or two with garlic, olive oil, salt, a good pinch of sage, and a bay leaf or two. Or a pot of lentils, a pound of which costs far less than a dollar at the market. Or a couple of summertime beefsteak tomatoes, cut into fat slices and sprinkled with a little salt. Or a good orange.

It is astounding, really, how much good food is available that requires little or no preparation on our part. And for so little money. And yet educated people are forever saying they don't have time to cook or don't know how to cook and don't seem to be the least bit concerned about the fact – perhaps even a bit proud of it, since cooking historically has been women's or blue-collar or immigrant work, and we live in a managerial society that worships status and titles and equates success with having other people do things for you.

Cooking your own food can be a declaration of independence, an assertion of control over a basic aspect of your life. It is also a fabulous social lubricant, since if you can cook for yourself you are likely to find yourself cooking for other people, too (most of whom are going to be deeply, if secretly, grateful to be served food made by actual human hands), and then you've got a party going.

And – here's the point, as the much-remodeled Greta Van Susteren might say – it's vastly cheaper. Cheaper, better for you, more fun, more social: what's not to like? And yet ... so many people don't cook. Or they barely cook, by adding the contents of some boxed "flavor packet" to some shrink-wrapped ground beef. Or, in a fit of ambition, they decide to make something from a recipe in the San Francisco Chronicle that calls for 20 ingredients, go to the market with flagging spirits and rising panic, and give up when they can't find cardamom.

If this is you, you're in cart-before-the-horse country. You have put yourself in the position of being a manufacturer in search of raw materials, and that isn't a particularly happy position for the would-be cook. A happier position is just to drift through some market – a supermarket, the corner market, a farmers market – and see what's there. What's in season? What's on sale? (These are often the same items.)

A few weeks ago I found some gorgeously ripe, though not in season, Haas avocados on sale (99¢ each), and for several nights we ate salads consisting of avocado and tomato slices, sprinkled with some salt and pepper, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and a splash of extra-virgin olive oil. The final avocado, mashed to a paste with some chopped, sautéed garlic, chili powder, ground cumin, cayenne pepper, and a bit of chicken stock to smooth things out, made a fine sauce for grilled, boneless chicken breasts. It would have made an equally fine sauce for pork tenderloin or swordfish – or grilled portobello mushrooms, if they'd been on sale. And they often are. And if you don't have a grill, just drizzle some oil on them and fry them quickly in a pan.

Recipes are, for the most part, Gumby-like in their flexibility. Inexperienced people get one peek at a recipe for béarnaise sauce – with all the stern admonitions about steady temperature and constant stirring – and run for the hills, never to be seen near a stove again. In their hearts they're back in high school chemistry, with all its cruel precisions. But most recipes aren't anything like that. You can take all sorts of liberties; the generally accepted term for this is "improvising." Don't have chicken stock? Try a little white wine. Or nonfat milk. Or water, or clam juice. I have a recipe for Szechuan noodles that calls for tahini, or sesame-seed paste, which I haven't had in the kitchen since Edwin Meese III served as attorney general. So I use peanut butter, and it works. The kitchen can be an unforgiving place, but more often it's a remarkably forgiving one, especially if you keep it simple.

One dish, simple enough for everyday life yet elegant enough for company, everybody ought to be able to make. You should not be allowed to graduate from high school without showing that you can prepare it. It is roast chicken.

There are many ways to roast a chicken. Many of them are easy, and all of them are quite inexpensive. Even fancy, free-range organic chickens aren't much more than $2 a pound – and the better supermarket varieties, some of which are just as tender, moist, and tasty, are far less than that. You also need some salt, a sharp chef's knife for dressing the chicken, a vertical roaster with drip pan (about $4), and maybe a packet of herbes de Provence, bought in bulk for 70¢ or so from Rainbow or Real Food.

The one trick here is planning a day ahead of time, for the dressed chicken – giblets removed, wing pinions, tail stub, and fat flaps at the rear end of the body cavity cut off – having been generously rubbed inside and out with salt (I use kosher) and the herbes de Provence, needs to sit in the refrigerator overnight. When, the following evening, you're ready to make dinner, take the bird out of the refrigerator and let it come to room temperature on the vertical roaster while you preheat the oven to 500 degrees Fahrenheit (i.e., full blast). Before you turn on the oven, make sure the internal racks are arranged so the bird on its roaster can stand up straight.

When the oven is hot, put the bird in the oven, back and thighs toward the rear, and roast for 10 minutes per pound. For a three-and-a-half-pound bird, this is about 35 minutes; I usually add another five just to make sure the chicken is cooked through. You should end up with gorgeously crisp, bronze skin and juicy meat distinctively perfumed with the herbs, especially lavender. After letting the bird rest for five minutes, carve it (with poultry shears or a sharp knife) by cutting out the backbone, separating the two legs (they practically fall off; cut the drumsticks from the thighs when they're freed from the body), cutting off the wings, and splitting the breast.

Variation: for a nice smoky effect, cook the chicken on a Weber charcoal grill, with the coals arranged on the sides (for indirect grilling) and the bird on its roaster set in the middle. Or, if you don't feel comfortable carving a chicken, buy an already-cut-up one. Rinse the pieces with water and place them in a large skillet (I use a 14-inch Calphalon) over medium heat for a few minutes per side. Add three cloves of smashed, peeled garlic, a handful of chopped fresh rosemary (or a couple of good pinches dried and crushed), several splashes of extra-virgin olive oil, a pinch or two of salt, and a pat of sweet butter. Let all that sizzle for a few minutes. Add a half cup of dry white wine and turn up the heat to burn off the alcohol. Turn down the heat, partially cover, and let the pot simmer for about a half hour, turning the pieces at least once so they become golden all over. When the chicken pieces are cooked, remove them to a warmed platter and squeeze the juice of a lemon into the skillet, scraping with a wooden spoon. Pour off the gravy (straining and separating it if you like) and serve it on the side with some roasted new potatoes and steamed broccoli.