Cooking 101 Too Little, Too Late
Posted: Tuesday, October 06, 2009
by Brianna Popsickle
I told my husband we'd been invited out for dinner but declined. We'd been out a fair bit and were trying to watch our spending.
"Yeah, you're probably right, save the money," he agreed.
"It's too bad," I explained. "At this new restaurant you're in an open kitchen and actually get a cooking lesson and prepare your own dinner with the help of the chef."
"Huh? What about the money?"
"Oh, we can handle it, tell them we'll go."
Suddenly I felt insulted. Now the truth was coming out. He wanted me to have a cooking lesson. This wasn't the first time he'd made a derogatory remark about my cooking.
There was the time I was making pork chops and he asked, "Did your mother boil all of her meat too?"
And if I had to listen to him tell the story of how he hitchhiked a hundred miles to see me when we started dating, only to be served Kraft Dinner and canned soup, I would scream. It didn't seem to bother him at the time; he kept coming back didn't he?
But it's not just him; I hear it from everyone. Friends say I should open my own truck- stop. My perked coffee would keep truckers awake for days.
My sisters won't let me forget the time when I babysat for a family and was asked to prepare potato salad. I made it just fine. I just failed to peel the potatoes.
OK people. Get over it already. I was twelve!
I was visiting my parents recently and offered to make lunch. My father hovered over me asking, "Why are you using that knife?" and " I put the mayo on first."
"Gaaaaaad," I said, "I'm forty-something I can make a sandwich."
My mother was worse. She couldn't say enough about the lunch. "This is so good, this is the best sandwich I've ever had," she said proudly.
For God sakes mom, it's a sandwich, I wanted to yell. It occurred to me it might be her guilt talking. After all, she had taught me everything she knew in the kitchen and God help me, I've taught my daughter. We need to break the cycle.
I've tried to explain, it's not my cooking. It'smy kitchen. Since our dining room is my office, our tiny kitchen is an eat-in.
I once hosted Thanksgiving dinner for thirteen and had to get everyone to stand up and shift, whenever I needed to open the oven door.
Regularly my daughter has to move from her seat in order for the dishwasher to be loaded. My husband constantly hits his head on the light fixture hanging over the table, and my son has to move whenever the dog wants out during dinner.
Get the picture? No wonder we usually jump at the chance to eat out.
Recently we went to the neighbor's for dinner. They have a lovely home, beautifully decorated. The husband joked about how they are the only couple to have chosen the breed of their dog, based on what his wife thought would look good sitting in their living room. Everything was perfect and I suspected dinner would be too.
We sat down and he introduced the salad. He hadn't yet got to the dressing and I had already surmised it wasn't from a squeeze bottle. They served stuffed Cornish Hen as the entre. The presentation was lovely, the flavor, mouth-watering! I suspect it was much like the Risotto in the Seinfeld episode. Very satisfying.
The hostess, who I mistakenly called Martha a couple of times, was delighted to see us enjoy the meal. She said they had practiced it several times to get it right.
"Wow," I said impressed. "I'm pretty sure we've been practiced on, but never practiced for." I felt very fortunate.
Somewhere between the main course and the dessert, I was enjoying the conversation, when suddenly it hit me. We were going to have to have them back. I broke out in a cold sweat and got noticeably quiet. We ate our dessert, which was to die for, and headed home.
The minute we got in I made a beeline for my recipe books. For someone who doesn't cook, I have hundreds of cookbooks, recipe cards and handwritten recipes written on scraps of paper, none of which I ever use. I usually google everything, most recently, "How to cook Corn on the Cob."
My husband, noticing I was in a panic asked what I was doing.
"We've got to have them back," I replied franticly. "What am I going to make?"
"No problem," he said. "We'll wait a couple of months and have them for a barbeque. We can eat outside, that way I can do the cooking."
We did have a lovely patio for entertaining but I didn't have the heart to tell my well-meaning husband what I was thinking.
I may not be great in the kitchen, but he is equally bad at barbequing. I always ask him to give me a ten-minute warning so I can time the veggies to be ready at the same time as the meat. My warning is usually, "#@#%@#%##," followed by "Damn it, I burnt the meat."
"Sounds good honey, but I'm just going to keep looking for a bit."
"Well I'm going to bed," he said. "Good luck."
I began scouring the recipes. Chicken Florentine, pan-roasted salmon with purple sprouting broccoli and rosemary sauce, bacon roasted chicken
Suddenly I was in my kitchen taste testing homemade soup. The granite countertops shone, the stainless steel appliances looked sleek. There was an island in the middle of my kitchen and over it hung a wide array of shiny pots and utensils. Heavenly aromas filled the air.
There was laughter and conversation coming from my office. I walked to the doorway and discovered it was no longer my office it was a dining room. A large fresh floral arrangement sat in the center of the table. Guests were smiling and enjoying a meal. Someone asked for seconds and then someone asked me for the recipe. They were telling me how wonderful everything tasted when suddenly I heard someone calling my name.
"Brianna, Brianna, wake up." My husband was shaking me.
I looked around the room. There were stacks of cookbooks strewn all over the table. Where were the granite counter tops, the sleek stainless steel appliances? What happened to my island?
"It's 3 a.m., you must have fallen asleep. What were you dreaming? You were smiling and saying, thank you, thank you."
"Oh," I said disappointed. " I don't remember."
"So have you decided what to serve the neighbors when we have them back?" he asked sweetly.
I stood up and hit my head on the fixture above the table.
"Yeah," I replied curtly.
"We're serving wine, and plenty of it."
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Top-level comments on this article: (7 total)"Suddenly I felt insulted. Now the truth was coming out. He wanted me to have a cooking lesson. This wasn't the first time he'd made a derogatory remark about my cooking."*** Thanks Brianna...I was in the middle of sipping my Heineken when I read this and now my lap is all wet....LMAO....Maybe I'll comment some more after I change my pants..........Kenny
Okay, I read the rest...It is a very very entertaining piece.I stood up and hit my head on the fixture above the table."Yeah," I replied curtly."We're serving wine, and plenty of it."*** Very clever....Great job!......................KennyGlad you enjoyed it Kenny. Maybe we'll throw in a couple of Heinekens too. :)In that case count me in! :)
Brianna, you crack me up!! Way too funny. I've had these kinds of lofty dreams myself :-)I know. Granite and stainless steel, the stuff that dreams are made of! :) Thanks for reading and commenting Teresa!
Another great article!Thanks very much Timothy. Glad you liked it!
I really enjoy reading your stuff and Im always surprised. youre a gifted writer;I sound like the back of some matchbook cover,but its true;youre the real deal!Groucho once said;"Its wonderful to have a large,warm,close-knit family,in another city!" PaulWell thanks Paul, and welcome to my family. :)
This is SO funny! Mom was sick and in bed most of the year I was 8 and I learned to cook somehow - then she taught me later too... so this is hard for me to relate to but I loved it just the same! MarijoI'm glad it gave you a laugh Mariijo. My friends say I am too hard on myself, my cooking's not that bad, (but my perked coffee is). :) Thanks for reading and commenting.
Funny stuff, Brianna!I do feel special. My wife "hooked" me with King Ranch Casserole!Are you sure you're not Erma Bombeck? Wonderfuil writing style!I'll have to get the recipe from her Ken. :) Thanks for the compliment!
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