It's not that cooking scared me - I grew up being in the kitchen - but rather the whole self-reliance portion of it. If I had a kitchen (and only half of a college meal plan), then I would be forced to grow up, just a little.
My step-mother bought me a cook book before I left for college that senior year. It was called the Starving Student's Guide to Cooking. It had easy meals for 1-2 people, with easy ingredients, and the best part - pictures of what pots and pans I'd need.
|This was my dinner last night. Come on over. There are plenty of leftovers.|
With a few simple recipes under my belt, I was confident to do other things...like get married and cook for a husband. (Well, it may not have been the recipes that made me decide this...)
Cooking is about one thing: following directions. If you do step one before you do step two, and so-on and so-on, in the end, you should have something resembling the picture Betty Crocker provided for you. As I did more cooking, the easier it became.
However, my kids aren't asking for culinary masterpieces. In fact, I'm pretty sure the last food-based disagreement we had was based on a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch (the only cereal all three can agree on). I can make a PB&J with one hand tied behind my back, and time a grilled cheese to coordinate with commercial breaks.
I am not a short order cook, nor do I play one on TV. What I make for dinner is what they are all expected to eat. I don't please everyone all the time. Actually, rarely do I have even a strong majority.
Last night, I made a roast. I tend to make roasts every Sunday. It's part of the alcohol-fueled idyllic family fantasy I have, like children that are seen and not heard, and dishes that magically do themselves. My roast-making capabilities have definitely evolved over the years, and now with the help of The Pioneer Woman, I make a pretty damn tasty roast beast with carrots, onions, rosemary, and thyme. When it's cooking, I just want to crawl in my over and inhale the anticipation.
I also made some rice (the only potato eater here is Disgruntled Husband) and roasted some brussel sprouts. (As I found out later, I am the only one that likes these.)
|At least DH and I liked it. And the cats.|
I call everyone to dinner. They sit. We say the blessing. And three kids eat buttered rice, a bite of meat, possibly one roasted carrot, and complain we didn't have Hamburger Helper.
I think I either need to adjust my expectations (and menu) for what my family will eat, or find a family that will appreciate the meals I do make.
At the end of the meal, when most of the kids had migrated to the living room, Clark the intellectually-challenged cat, jumps on the table and before I can swat him down, steal some meat from Hoover's plate.
I'm cooking for a F-ing cat. Make that two, because later Mo was found trying to get scraps from the garbage.
At least someone appreciates a good roast.