I wish I were a better cook. You know, the kind of cook who is confident and at ease in the kitchen. The kind who can add a little of this and a little of that, creating something delicious as if by magic. Alas, I will never be that happy, singing-in-the-kitchen sort of chef.
I don’t like to cook. I don’t like the prep, the mixing, the waiting or the clean-up. Left to my own devices, I would never cook another meal. But, as it is, I must feed my husband (who, by the way, will eat pretty much anything, thank heavens!) and so, I cook.
I do not understand why I’m a lousy cook. I certainly have the genes to be a phenomenal one. Both grandmothers were awesome in the kitchen and my mom has actually won prizes for her cakes.
Not me. I’ve had to sign written statements to my family as a result of certain cooking disasters. For example, I’m sure my husband still has the contract about NEVER trying eggplant lasagna again.
And cakes? Well, let’s just say that gene skipped my generation. I could tell you about the time I made one of the first microwave cakes for my son’s birthday…it was the size of a Frisbee and bounced when piece hit the floor. I know this because my son and his friends did more bouncing than eating.
Or I could mention my granddaughter’s cake for her 7th birthday. She’s requested a caramel cake which requires cooking the icing just so. I cheated with the cake part and used a mix. It turned out beautifully. Then, I applied the icing. Just as I was finishing up the top layer, the entire cake split right down the middle.
I’m not even going to talk about the time I baked a cake for my mother’s birthday (from SCRATCH!) and caught the oven on fire.
So now the secret is out–I can’t cook.
But I sure wish I could.