It’s painful to admit any shortcoming in the domestic arts, but I’m not a very good cook.
I’ve kept my family alive and fed for nearly 27 years, but Curtis Stone I am not.
The Lord asks us to carry our crosses; sometimes my husband, Dan, has to eat his.
On the positive side, I have probably saved him and our children from a lifetime of obesity.
While in general my bad culinary luck seems mysterious and insuperable, I know that some failures are preventable.
Despite years of hard evidence to the contrary, I persist in the belief that it’s not really necessary to follow recipes.
While improvising can yield new and exciting creations, in my case it usually doesn’t.
Some time ago, I made what my children (charitably) described as an “interesting” meal.
It was a modified Chicken Tetrazzini casserole: ‘modified’ because I’d had no fresh or frozen chicken on hand (I used tinned), no real cream (I used condensed milk), no sherry (did not even attempt a substitute), and no egg noodles (I used leftover, chopped up spaghetti). I did have salt and pepper.
Dan, who is usually just happy to be fed (bless him), tucked in and exclaimed, “This is great!” Either the dish really was palatable or he was feeling especially generous (or mischievous), because he added, “You should write a cookbook”.
This brought forth hearty laughter from all around the table, especially me. I could write a book all right. It would include such gems of advice as:
• Do not attempt any recipe from which you are missing more than half the ingredients.
• There is no way to get spaghetti sauce off the kitchen ceiling without ruining the finish.
• Potholders ignite in much less time than you’d think.
• Buns of Steel is not a baking video (but at my house, it could be).
In the depths of pathos, I’ve been known to blame my tools, appliances or environment, hoping that my skills would improve with a new range, fancy pots, or maybe even a complete renovation.
My kitchen still has much of its original 1975 décor—and while ‘Mid-Century Modern’ may be back in vogue, I’m having none of it. I’ve lived through the 70s once; I’m not doing it again. But I digress.
What really baffles me is when I conscientiously try to follow recipes, and they still flop. I have vanquished nearly every “No Fail” recipe I’ve encountered.
I still remember my first attempt at a pineapple upside-down cake: at the climactic moment (inverting the cake onto a plate to reveal the glossy rings of pineapple adorning the top), half the cake plopped out, but the pineapple rings stayed firmly glued to the pan.
My nine-year-old daughter tried to comfort me. “You’re not a terrible cook, Mum; it’s just that the things you make don’t turn out.” (This child may have a future in law or politics.)
On the upside, I can capitalise on teachable moments with my children (beyond the blatantly obvious: “When you grow up and become mistress of your own kitchen—don’t do this …”).
One time, we were able to glean a physical geography lesson (tectonic plate movement) from an inordinately runny peach cobbler.
Not only was it visually entertaining, but the earth’s crust and peach-flavoured magma were rather tasty with vanilla icecream.
And thankfully, not everything fails—I just wish Dan wouldn’t sound quite so surprised when a meal turns out well.
I continue bravely on, but as a rule would rather spend more time at the laptop than the cooktop.
I often meet readers who compliment–nay thank me—for my writing.
Never (to date) has one of my children laid a gentle hand on my arm and said in warm, flattering tones, “Oh, I just love your cooking. I always look forward to your next culinary creation.”
But perhaps someday they will, and that will be a defining moment in my motherly existence.
In the meantime, I have embraced my gastronomic handicap much as St Paul accepted his thorn in his flesh; it’s the Lord’s way of keeping me humble (the majority of my disasters happen when I have dinner guests) and focused on him.
His grace is enough for us, even when the potatoes run short.