Confession time: I’m lousy at taking vacations.

Breathtaking admission, I know.

Here’s one more: I’m lousy at confessions.

But about that first one…

It isn’t that I don’t enjoy time off. I do. Probably at a level that borders on unnatural. I like to travel. I’m an excellent sleeper. I can avoid housework with the best of men. If whipping through the TV channels were an Olympic event, I’d be the Michael Phelps of the remote control.

But I don’t like being away from my job, mostly because I have to do about two weeks worth of work to compensate for every week I’m off. Where’s the fun in that?

Still, I know that time off is not only necessary but crucial. Even the most Type AAAA personality needs to unplug.

This year, I actually took an entire week. The Family Stew was invited to spend time at a condo on Madiera Beach. I like to think that we’re smart enough collectively to agree whenever someone offers a week at the beach.

We packed the sunscreen and the beach towels and the fishing poles.

Did I bring the laptop? Yes, I did. Did the BlackBerry come along? Of course.

But I also packed did the treasured KitchenAid stand-up mixer I bought on sale a few years ago. And the Cuisinart ice cream maker I found at a garage sale. And my flat-top electric griddle. And the 9-quart Le Creuset French oven my wife gave me last year. And a giant stew pot.

A clear, plastic toolbox was converted for culinary use. I filled it with half of the contents of our gadget drawer. I emptied the spice closet and the giant box of kosher salt, too. I stopped by Target for a portable gas hibachi. And I tucked away half a library of cookbooks to peruse.

Why all the kitchen stuff?

Because I realized something when I was packing.

I love to cook. I’m not always successful and the results are often messy and of questionable gastronomic value but I love it nonetheless.

But usually the only time I cook is when I have to cook, which means that cooking comes too close to work.

In theory, vacation is for doing things you enjoy. I figured I should probably cook as much as possible. So that’s what I did.

I grilled salmon on the hibachi. Cooking down at ankle level on the condo balcony and using with makeshift utensils, the salmon filets nonetheless came out to a dusty rose perfection.

I made a key lime pie that, quite frankly, was so delicious and beautifully smooth, I was reluctant to slice and share.

Then there was the coffee ice cream with espresso, followed by a fresh batch of grapefruit sorbet. I drove all over the beaches in search of orgeat (almond) syrup to make that recipe.

I did hot dogs and hamburgers for nine people. I made breakfast on the griddle.

And, because I had not done so before, I spatchcocked a chicken on the grill, after being inspired by my friends The Culinary Sherpas. (Look up spatchcocking, if you’re unfamiliar. It’s worth the effort.)

And when it was all done, I felt like I had been on vacation because I cooked what I wanted when I wanted. Which was the idea in the first place. Better yet, I got to eat it. And now the appliances on my kitchen counter remind me not of weeknight rush-rush dinners but of that deeply satisfying cooking adventure.

I can’t wait for the next vacation. There’s some homemade sausage I’m dying to make.