Cooking Ain't for Sissies
I've been reading Julie Powell's book on the "Julie/Julia Project," and it's got me thinking a lot about cooking.
It's no secret that I don't cook. It might come as a shock to some, however, that I can cook. And indeed, I used to cook--a lot. When I got married for the first time at the ripe ol' age of 21, I got more cookbooks as gifts than you can shake a stick at. Though part of me was miffed over the obviously sexist undertone of the cookbook as bridal shower gift, I was glad to get them. And over the years, I collected several more. I used them all the time to put together festive menus for various dinner parties and social events. I even used them to cater an anniversary party for a friend's parents. (I did not, however, ever use my mother's copy of "Better Homes & Gardens' Cooking for Two," which she received as a wedding gift from her mother in 1971. I just never had much occasion for hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls. But I keep that one around for when I need a good laugh. Or an appetite suppressant.)
My dishes were always the subject of high praise. I had a knack for knowing what to serve with what and what seasoning to add or not. I wasn't so good with desserts--baking is an exact science and I'm not good with absolute measurements--but I could get you so full you wouldn't want dessert.
I stopped cooking when I wound up with db. His hate for all things extends, unbelievably, to food as well as people, places, weather and inanimate objects. Everything was "too spicy." "Are you trying to kill me?" was a question he often asked of me at the dinner table. And the foodstuffs he would actually consume were limited to a very small cross-section of the culinary world--no meat (only poultry), no peppers of any kind, very little of anything green. And it all had to be cooked to death and made as bland as physically possible. Eventually, I got sick of his bitching about my preparations (like everything else) and told him he was responsible for cooking dinner. So I ate overdone chicken and turkey in a limited variety of recipes with potatoes and canned or frozen vegetables for the next couple of years. Occasionally I would cook something for myself, like the time I brazenly made breakfast burritos and was promptly yelled at for cooking pork sausage (the savagery!) in his precious cast iron skillet.
It was hell.
After I got out of that mess, I found myself living as a single mother to a toddler in a very small apartment with a very small kitchen. Bob was beginning to establish himself as a picky eater, and I wasn't terribly interested in cooking a big meal for myself after getting home at almost 6pm. So we started eating a lot of fast food, and a lot of frozen food, and a lot of microwaveable food. Not long after the move, I went on a much-needed diet and started eating a lot of Lean Cuisine. My pots and pans got pushed to the wayside, my cookbooks packed away in storage.
When I met Ben, I'd lost my zeal for cooking. I still cooked occasionally, and we often enjoyed cooking together--until he started watching more and more Food Network and turned all Iron Chef on me. I was glad to let him be in charge of meals. I'd gotten tired of cooking and coming up with new dinner ideas every night. And with the amount of stress I was under, I couldn't focus on cooking. I'd get distracted by burning garlic or peeling something and would end up flustered and frustrated and not in the mood to eat at all. After we moved to our new house, the only times I would cook would usually end with me getting sick of Ben's back seat cooking and turning the process over to him, or with me getting sick of Bob's incessant "Mommy Mommy Mommy hey Mommy" and giving up the ghost for take-out.
But Monday evening, Ben wasn't home, and Bob was condemned to the Naughty Chair, and I had promised Ben a pot of baked potato soup when he got home.
Because I was ignoring Bob and his bad-kid commentary, I was able to focus on chopping. I think I willed myself to focus on chopping because I might have otherwise started chopping off his fingers. I was also very focused on keeping my amounts in sync--I'm notorious for starting a small pot of soup and ending up with 16 gallons because I chop too much of one vegetable and have to compensate. No one watched over my shoulder and questioned my seasoning, no one tugged at my arm or made mysterious noises to be investigated. The end result was quite possibly the best pot of baked potato soup I've ever made.
It felt as good as it tasted.
So I'm wondering if maybe I should start cooking again. Maybe the Zoloft has given me the calm and clarity I need to carry a recipe through from start to finish. Maybe I could find a polite way to tell my fabulous husband to keep his food snob ass out of the kitchen while I'm in there--possibly by occupying Bob.
Tonight I'm doing vegetable beef soup. Can't wait.
It's no secret that I don't cook. It might come as a shock to some, however, that I can cook. And indeed, I used to cook--a lot. When I got married for the first time at the ripe ol' age of 21, I got more cookbooks as gifts than you can shake a stick at. Though part of me was miffed over the obviously sexist undertone of the cookbook as bridal shower gift, I was glad to get them. And over the years, I collected several more. I used them all the time to put together festive menus for various dinner parties and social events. I even used them to cater an anniversary party for a friend's parents. (I did not, however, ever use my mother's copy of "Better Homes & Gardens' Cooking for Two," which she received as a wedding gift from her mother in 1971. I just never had much occasion for hot dogs wrapped in crescent rolls. But I keep that one around for when I need a good laugh. Or an appetite suppressant.)
My dishes were always the subject of high praise. I had a knack for knowing what to serve with what and what seasoning to add or not. I wasn't so good with desserts--baking is an exact science and I'm not good with absolute measurements--but I could get you so full you wouldn't want dessert.
I stopped cooking when I wound up with db. His hate for all things extends, unbelievably, to food as well as people, places, weather and inanimate objects. Everything was "too spicy." "Are you trying to kill me?" was a question he often asked of me at the dinner table. And the foodstuffs he would actually consume were limited to a very small cross-section of the culinary world--no meat (only poultry), no peppers of any kind, very little of anything green. And it all had to be cooked to death and made as bland as physically possible. Eventually, I got sick of his bitching about my preparations (like everything else) and told him he was responsible for cooking dinner. So I ate overdone chicken and turkey in a limited variety of recipes with potatoes and canned or frozen vegetables for the next couple of years. Occasionally I would cook something for myself, like the time I brazenly made breakfast burritos and was promptly yelled at for cooking pork sausage (the savagery!) in his precious cast iron skillet.
It was hell.
After I got out of that mess, I found myself living as a single mother to a toddler in a very small apartment with a very small kitchen. Bob was beginning to establish himself as a picky eater, and I wasn't terribly interested in cooking a big meal for myself after getting home at almost 6pm. So we started eating a lot of fast food, and a lot of frozen food, and a lot of microwaveable food. Not long after the move, I went on a much-needed diet and started eating a lot of Lean Cuisine. My pots and pans got pushed to the wayside, my cookbooks packed away in storage.
When I met Ben, I'd lost my zeal for cooking. I still cooked occasionally, and we often enjoyed cooking together--until he started watching more and more Food Network and turned all Iron Chef on me. I was glad to let him be in charge of meals. I'd gotten tired of cooking and coming up with new dinner ideas every night. And with the amount of stress I was under, I couldn't focus on cooking. I'd get distracted by burning garlic or peeling something and would end up flustered and frustrated and not in the mood to eat at all. After we moved to our new house, the only times I would cook would usually end with me getting sick of Ben's back seat cooking and turning the process over to him, or with me getting sick of Bob's incessant "Mommy Mommy Mommy hey Mommy" and giving up the ghost for take-out.
But Monday evening, Ben wasn't home, and Bob was condemned to the Naughty Chair, and I had promised Ben a pot of baked potato soup when he got home.
Because I was ignoring Bob and his bad-kid commentary, I was able to focus on chopping. I think I willed myself to focus on chopping because I might have otherwise started chopping off his fingers. I was also very focused on keeping my amounts in sync--I'm notorious for starting a small pot of soup and ending up with 16 gallons because I chop too much of one vegetable and have to compensate. No one watched over my shoulder and questioned my seasoning, no one tugged at my arm or made mysterious noises to be investigated. The end result was quite possibly the best pot of baked potato soup I've ever made.
It felt as good as it tasted.
So I'm wondering if maybe I should start cooking again. Maybe the Zoloft has given me the calm and clarity I need to carry a recipe through from start to finish. Maybe I could find a polite way to tell my fabulous husband to keep his food snob ass out of the kitchen while I'm in there--possibly by occupying Bob.
Tonight I'm doing vegetable beef soup. Can't wait.
posted by Mitzi Green at 1:14 PM
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