I blew it last week. I’d been promising myself I would cook a good meal. Since my standard dinner lately has been a plate of nachos and a couple of spoons of peanut butter. I figured it was high time to cook a proper meal. It started well: I snagged a fancy pasta recipe off the internet and raced through the grocery store after class loading up on ingredients I had no business buying: sun-dried tomatoes soaking in tubs of yellow oil, artichoke hearts squeezed into tiny square jars, and a big bottle of dry white cooking wine for simmering the sauce. Then I came home and made a huge mess.
First, I didn’t have butter so I tossed the chopped onions into some lukewarm olive oil. Then after I realized I forgot to buy garlic I dumped the whole bottle of artichokes in to make up for it, figuring they were related somewhere way back in their vegetable family tree (I know better than that, but when you start cooking and don’t have what you need, sometimes you improvise). Unfortunately, while trying to get the onions frying I dissolved those artichokes to mush. My grip on dinner was slipping so I tried saving the day with half a bottle of white wine before letting the whole thing simmer for ten minutes. Smiling and satisfied, I washed my hands and scooped a bed of steamy pasta onto a dinner plate before pouring a generous amount of my sauce on.
Well, guess what?
It was disgusting.
The onions were somehow raw and burnt (if you’ve cooked before, you know this feat is hard to accomplish), the artichokes were long gone, and the booze hadn’t simmered off so the entire thing tasted like hot wine. I got up to check the recipe and noticed I’d forgotten to put water in during the important final stage and somehow replaced it with triple the amount of wine. It was a terrible meal and I choked it back through a forced smile and hot tears. A half bottle of Parmesan cheese and a loaf of bread were also called in to help. It was a sad day but I really do hope that one day I get to experience the joy of cooking something new and having everyone like it.
This is not something I have no experience at. I have been cooking successfully for many years now. I can make lasagna from scratch with the noodles you have to cook first (not the cheater, cook while they bake ones). I can make a pretty good chicken noodle soup (so I’ve been told). I am a grilling champion the likes of Bobby Flay. And I have a mean prowess when it comes to baking a firm, but moist, cake. So I know what it looks like when people enjoy your culinary creations. I can see it now.
After flipping through cookbooks and strolling through aisles I get a sneaky twinkle in my eye as I race home ready to whip up a storm. Next I grab my trusty “cooking towel” (a multipurpose towel I use while cooking), throw on a cap to hold back the sweat, and preheat that oven. After spinning like the Tasmanian Devil for a couple hours everyone finally comes over and samples my big meal.
“Ohhhh…” they say softly “Wow, this is delicious! What is this?”
“Oh … just some experimenting,” I smile back shyly, shrugging my shoulders. “It was so easy, honestly.”
But they won’t stop. None of them will. A round of applause starts as I get up to start cleaning the kitchen. They want the recipe, they want the leftovers, they want me to cater their upcoming dinner parties…I am chef galore. This, of course, has never really happened. I do get compliments, though. I make a darn good turkey gravy at Thanksgiving. I can make just about any casserole from memory (my folks are from the Midwest, home of the casserole). But, on those rare occasions where I screw up, it reminds me how good I should be. I never make the same mistakes twice and I’ve never made a bad meal two times in a row.
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