When I was in high school I told my mom her cooking sucked.
I was cocky and insensitive to be sure, but it was true. My mother was a creature of cooking habits with limited repertoire and an aversion to stepping outside her culinary comfort zone.
Growing up, Monday night was roast chicken, Tuesday was spaghetti and meatballs (canned sauce, inedible golf balls masquerading as meat). Wednesday varied between pork chops or lamb chops (broiled, salt and pepper, if she was feeling adventurous). Thursday nights we dined with fried chicken, yup, good old KFC, sometimes with a side of sticky ribs (yes, back in the day KFC used to serve ribs!) and greasy fries. Is this considered cooking? If it is, this was her best night cooking!
Friday and Saturday my dad, a legendary grill master, treated us to a charcoal feast or we went out. Again, not much cooking on my mom’s part other than a baked potato and a side of boiled broccoli. Sunday was ALWAYS take out Chinese. At last, some international flare! Clearly, there was not a lot of culinary variety, creativity or seasoning going on at my house. Sound familiar?
Is your family on the verge of a culinary coupe?
What else could I do but rebel?
My mom was very well aware of her culinary limitations but she was no shrinking violet. When I confronted her with her obvious deficiencies, she said, “Fine. You cook” and happily passed the spatula on to me.
Without missing a beat, my mom wrapped her apron strings around my neck and went out to buy me a copy of The Joy of Cooking.
She also proudly lent me her Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book and designated Wednesday as my night to cook for our family. I’d select the recipe, she’d buy the ingredients. The pressure was on. Time to put my culinary chops where my mouth was. I had no idea what I was doing, yet I knew whatever it was, I had to do it masterfully.
Not.
My first meal was chicken cordon bleu. Why? I don’t know. It sounded french and elegant. My resulting meal was anything but.
Inedible rubber with a lumpy, starchy sauce. I was not off to a great start. And boy did I make a mess. Clean up lasted almost as long as it took to cook my marvelous flop. There would be no repeat performances of this meal. Chalk up one in my mom’s right to gloat column.
The following week I was still determined to do a meal with an international twist but aimed for something more homey sounding. Swedish meatballs. Mind you, Scandinavia is not my homeland. That should have been a clue but I didn’t see the disaster coming. Suffice it to say the resulting meal resembled something you’d find in a baby’s diaper. Not a pretty sight. Even less appealing as a meal. Score: Mom: 2, Linda: 0.
I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details. Wednesday nights found my mom suddenly on a diet, my dad taking clients out for dinner and my siblings gorging on junk food before my meal was served. I found myself persona non grata in the kitchen. My family decisively chose my mom’s bland predictable food over my bold adventures at the stove.
Thank heavens I’m now older, wiser and a much better cook. I look back at my first forays into cooking and smile as I recall the horror on my family’s faces as I passed the dinner plates. I realize in my impish youth I created some family folklore that I’ll spend a lifetime living down, no matter how mouth-wateringly delicious my cooking is today. Loving families are great reminders of where you’ve been and how far you have come.
How was your first experience cooking a family meal? What did you cook? Was it fantastic or did it go down in spectacular flames? Please share your memory in the comments below so we can all smile together.
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