I've always wanted to be really good at cooking. It's something I've been actively failing at for 25 years, but that has not deterred me from giving up (unfortunately for my dinner guests). I've done it all: started a fire in the microwave, forgotten a crucial ingredient, had too much confidence and "made up" a concoction that made even myself sick, burned a plethora of dishes, and have even managed to screw up boxed cupcakes. Did I also mention that I can barely pour myself a glass of milk? I can guarantee you that I'm the world's worst chef, and yet I still love to host dinner parties. My friends have now assumed that these are pot lucks, and that they are bringing the main course, leaving me to supply the wine or ice cream.
My infatuation with making up my own concoctions began around the age of six. My mom would allow me to help her from time to time, and my favorite thing to do was crack eggs. I think I enjoyed the challenge of it- there was such a delicate balance between getting it right or making a mess, and my favorite was the latter- I loved putting my hands in a good egg that "accidentally" dropped from sky to floor. I can't say that my mom was in agreement.
I would imagine I was the best chef in the world. Behind my mother's back of course, I stood at the entrance of our kitchen, tall and proud and ready to make the biggest mess- I mean dish, that I possibly could. I grabbed the blender, every spice I could find, raw eggs (my recipes always included raw eggs), oil, sugar, flour, bacon-you name it- it was in my concoction. I thought that I would just magically create the best recipe ever known to mankind. I would force my sister to taste test whatever concoction managed to stay off the floor. This was always served in our Disney cups that we got off the back of a Kellogg's cereal offer. Aladdin could make any concoction look convincing to try. I must have known it was going to taste awful, otherwise I would have tried the concoctions for myself. The trials always ended with my sister either spitting it out, or barfing it up.
My family can testify that I was one of the crueler older sisters known to history.
Fun fact: I didn't like eggs until I was 19 years old.
In high school, my mother was busy cooking in the kitchen and realized that she forgot to buy cucumbers, an essential ingredient in the dish she was cooking. I came back with a zucchini because I didn't know the difference. They were both green, long and...curved right? This was also around the same time I put cabbage on my sandwich because I thought it was lettuce. I wish I were making up this entry.
In college, I wanted to become the grill master and take over the burgers for our summer kegger. Somehow, I managed to cook everyone's burger without incident except for mine. The bloody patty made my bun soggy, but I somehow didn't notice until it was too late. I was starving so it wasn't until my burger was half gone that I realized I wasn't feeling so well. This resulted in me running to the porcelain throne before I even had a chance to get my first beer down. My sister didn't have to seek revenge. I was my own worst enemy. Oh Karma.
I would imagine I was the best chef in the world. Behind my mother's back of course, I stood at the entrance of our kitchen, tall and proud and ready to make the biggest mess- I mean dish, that I possibly could. I grabbed the blender, every spice I could find, raw eggs (my recipes always included raw eggs), oil, sugar, flour, bacon-you name it- it was in my concoction. I thought that I would just magically create the best recipe ever known to mankind. I would force my sister to taste test whatever concoction managed to stay off the floor. This was always served in our Disney cups that we got off the back of a Kellogg's cereal offer. Aladdin could make any concoction look convincing to try. I must have known it was going to taste awful, otherwise I would have tried the concoctions for myself. The trials always ended with my sister either spitting it out, or barfing it up.
My family can testify that I was one of the crueler older sisters known to history.
Fun fact: I didn't like eggs until I was 19 years old.
In high school, my mother was busy cooking in the kitchen and realized that she forgot to buy cucumbers, an essential ingredient in the dish she was cooking. I came back with a zucchini because I didn't know the difference. They were both green, long and...curved right? This was also around the same time I put cabbage on my sandwich because I thought it was lettuce. I wish I were making up this entry.
In college, I wanted to become the grill master and take over the burgers for our summer kegger. Somehow, I managed to cook everyone's burger without incident except for mine. The bloody patty made my bun soggy, but I somehow didn't notice until it was too late. I was starving so it wasn't until my burger was half gone that I realized I wasn't feeling so well. This resulted in me running to the porcelain throne before I even had a chance to get my first beer down. My sister didn't have to seek revenge. I was my own worst enemy. Oh Karma.
I've been trying to become a better cook. Practice makes perfect right? (Or so they say- so far this theory has failed me). My mom has entrusted me with the green bean casserole for Thanksgiving and nothing more. I offered to make the turkey and she didn't even let me finished before she yelled, "ABSOLUTELY NOT. I WANT TO EAT THIS THANKSGIVING!"
Oh well. In the meantime, Halloween is just around the corner. It's the perfect opportunity to pretend I'm something I'm not- a 1950's housewife. I'm supposed to bake a plate of cookies to add to my costume's effect. I'm just calling the hospital now so an ambulance is on call. Sorry in advance for any obituaries you may see in the November 1st edition of Seattle Times.
Oh well. In the meantime, Halloween is just around the corner. It's the perfect opportunity to pretend I'm something I'm not- a 1950's housewife. I'm supposed to bake a plate of cookies to add to my costume's effect. I'm just calling the hospital now so an ambulance is on call. Sorry in advance for any obituaries you may see in the November 1st edition of Seattle Times.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but being stubborn in the kitchen can be good business for your local hospital.
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