as i get older, i'm coming to realize that there's a lot of things that people don't tell you. or maybe they did and i just wasn't listening (this is actually more likely). i grew up with a mom who loves to cook. LOVES. she calls me every night and talks me through whatever foodnetwork show she may be watching (it's usually barefoot contessa, in case you're wondering). i don't mind at all because i love ina garten (that's the contessa herself). but the conversation always turns to one main question from my mom...."what are you making for dinner?"
when i first moved out on my own, i was always cooking. i loved having my own kitchen and cooking tools. i loved trying out new recipes. it was all so magical and new. so when my mom and i used to have the "what are you making for dinner?" conversation we both always had something to contribute. eventually the novelty wore off. i have a handful of recipes that i make and have, for the most part, "mastered". even so, i still considered myself as someone who loves to cook.
then i met my husband. he enjoys cooking and is good at it...probably because he's more meticulous than i am and doesn't give up on a recipe if it has more than 5 ingredients. seriously, who has the attention span to deal with 20+ ingredients? by comparison, i'm an amateur. i mean, i know how to boil water, cook eggs, make toast. and, like i said, i have a handful of recipes that i enjoy making and turn out quite well (if i do say so myself). but my "what are you making for dinner?" conversations with my mom have evolved to "are you making a sandwich for dinner?" or "are you walking to whole foods for dinner?"poor poor disappointed mom. she still goes on about some amazing dish she's making (perhaps to inspire me...lead by example, as they say) but, i know one day, she won't even bother asking me "what are you making for dinner?"
but maybe what my mom doesn't realize is that it's not so much that i'm not inspired as it is my skills are rapidly unraveling into nothingness. it's like the flowers for algernon story i read in 7th grade (really, look it up). perfect example, last week we decided we'd make stir fry. awesome. i love stir fry. i know how to make brown rice. made it hundreds of times. have watched my mom make it thousands of times. easy. no problem. oh, but there was a problem. i followed the basic instructions (like i needed them!) and poured in the rice, added water and brought to a boil. only the water boiled a lot faster than i'd expected (gas stove). so i was like oops, i'll add more water. but then there was a lot of water. whatever, i've done this before, i thought. it's cool. so an hour later, there it was. stir fry with a side of oatmeal rice glob. seriously? i mean, based on my ethnic background alone, i should know how to make rice in my sleep. that night, as i served the oatmeal rice glob, i just thought that my grandmother is looking down on me in horror and shame. rice! glob! ugh.
my husband took one look at the rice and...threw up. ok, no he didn't. maybe a little. in his mouth. but i can't be sure. no, he took a look at the rice and just said, i'm sure it'll taste good. i watched as he added more and more soy sauce to the rice, insisting, it "tastes great with some extra soy sauce."
no one ever told me that my culinary intelligence increase was also only temporary. that i'd be powerless to prevent the change. that for a moment in time, my husband would actually be better at something than me.
so here i am with oatmeal glob and my memories of of culinary delights....meanwhile, my husband made cornchip crusted halibut with a salsa cream sauce two nights ago. honestly? what happened?
so with that, honey, what are you making for dinner? seriously, all this talk has made me hungry.
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