You are currently browsing the daily archive for April 26, 2010.
One of the humorous, questionable advantages of having an older brother is that he always remembers your “classic” moments. E-Bro loves to recount the tale of how, one summer morning when I was in my early teens, I asked him how to boil water. I don’t think he’s stopped laughing yet.
But it’s true. Although I admit that I learned a lot about how to make bacon and eggs that summer, a dish which became my signature breakfast through senior year of high school, I couldn’t cook anything else. The kitchen was my Mother’s for dinner and my Father’s for baking. Mother wasn’t a gourmet cook. Her cooking was basic, normal, pretty good. Nothing she was particularly proud of – it was a have-to-do, not a want-to-do. The repertoire included such things as Spam, pot roast, chicken and dumplings, creamed chipped beef on toast, county-style steak, the ubiquitous canned/frozen veggie, and a hunk of iceberg lettuce with carrots, olives, etc. for salad. When she wanted to drive me out of the house, she would make sauerkraut and sausages, naturally one of E-Bro’s favorites.
The irony of my first job being that of cook in a restaurant was not lost on me. I worked the grill/deli side of the restaurant, occasionally venturing into the salad station downstairs in the fancy French part when the need was dire. But as a grill cook, I learned to make a few things well: grilled cheese, pastrami sandwiches, cole slaw, chicken salad – nothing complicated, but enough to survive on. And I sliced my hand to the bone on my 18th birthday, while demonstrating (most impressively as it turned out) what NOT to do when the meat slicer was running.
Moving onto college, my first important college boyfriend still stands by his accusation that my chicken-in-wine (one of my Mother’s special recipes) gave him food poisoning. That was the first time I ever tried cooking for a boyfriend. Come to think of it, I didn’t risk it again for probably six years. Really.
I still stayed in the restaurant world for work. After two and a half years in a pizzeria, I can make a mean pie. And I toss a mean dough. Always a useful skill. (I also severely burned my arm on the inside top of the pizza oven during one lunch rush.) I basically survived on pizza, as I had convinced myself that I couldn’t cook. At my apartment, I managed to boil artichokes, and eat peanuts out of the shell in bed. That was pretty much how it was when I met Pat.
Once we moved in together, he tried to help me understand that I COULD cook, I just WASN’T cooking. He actually taught me a lot about things like not measuring and not following a recipe exactly. I guess he taught me to relax in the kitchen, and in our pre-kid years, we enjoyed cooking together. While I did have some notable failures, such as forgetting the baking soda in the banana bread, I reached a point where I felt confident in the kitchen. (Though never with baking.)
But after Kelsea was born, and I was working so much, the kitchen became Pat’s domain. In one of those many bizarre power plays that contributed to the downfall of our marriage, I let him convince me that I was an incompetent cook. Any confidence that I had gained in the kitchen vanished, along with any joy in cooking. It was just more work to me, and I didn’t like it. I still experimented sometimes when things were still okay in our marriage, but the worse our marriage got, the less I wanted to be in the kitchen. Maybe I’ll take that to the Red Couch for analysis sometime.
Then, I moved out. And in my own little kitchen, with the basic implements that I remember my Mother having, I am pretty clueless. I still love my cooking magazines and cookbooks – I like the idea of cooking. I have limited counter space. I still lack confidence, even though I now have time. Being on the Atkins Diet (still working well, by the way), limits my culinary options fairly significantly – perhaps simplifies them would be a better term. But I do try.
Honestly, it’s a joke with Kelsea and me. We reached a peak of lowness last weekend, when I attempted to broil pork chops while boiling water for crab legs. Sounds like two simple and distinct actions, doesn’t it? Well, the cottage is equipped with high ceilings and a smoke detector as sensitive as a bipolar woman with severe PMS. Between some kind of grease build up on the broiler unit (from roasting chicken – and don’t tell me to clean the oven, because the last time I did that, I got a chemical burn on a very delicate body part, and so am gun-shy about repeating the process without body armour) and the steam from the crab legs, the smoke detector went off. Permanently. We opened the window in the kitchen, with Kelsea fanning the smoke away from the smoke detector with a full-size flag of Ireland. We also opened the kitchen door, accidentally loosening the Mexican porcelain sculpture suspended from the kitchen ceiling, which fell with a splendid shattering crash to the tile entryway, spewing little pieces into the lawn. Kelsea’s arms gave out, just as smoke started belching from the burners on the stove, so I turned everything off, and waved my sweater in front of the smoke detector until it stopped. The pork chops and crab legs were overdone and Kelsea and I were done in.
I’m not ready to figuratively throw in the towel, but clearly my current strategy is not working. Wait, I don’t even know what my current strategy is. But tonight, as the chicken is roasting away, I have defeated one nemesis. I took the battery out of the smoke detector. Talk about living dangerously.