|Made-from-scratch chicken caesar sandwiches with garlic dressing|
Once, when I was eight, I tried to cook for myself. I took things from the refrigerator that I liked: grapes, pudding, ketchup, a slice of American cheese. I mixed them all together in a bowl, dipped a spoon in, and took a tentative lick. It was horrible. Excruciatingly horrible.
"What do you eat?" I am twenty-two. I'm finishing up my senior year at the University of South Florida. Ryan and I have just started dating. He's looking into my bare refrigerator. I shrug my shoulders.
"It's cereal, isn't it?" He grins. "You just eat cereal." I give him a guilty smile back. It's not until this moment that I realize that just eating cereal might be a bad thing. I never really thought about it at all. I love cereal. Grape Nuts, Cheerios, Life. I am full after I eat a bowl, I don't crave dessert, and I am comfortable with my weight.
Before children, when Ryan and I were high school English teachers, Outback Steakhouse was a nice dinner out. I still ate a lot of cereal, and poor Ryan, who knows what he ate. Once, I remember, I tried to follow a recipe for a lamb dish with a wine sauce. But I got distracted by the television and it burnt to a crisp, setting off the fire alarm and sticking so firmly to the pan that I finally had to toss the whole thing out.
We never hosted Thanksgiving dinner, but were always asked to bring a side dish or dessert. Pumpkin pie was my favorite, so one year I made that. Trying to avoid clean-up, I put a sheet of non-stick aluminum foil down on the bottom of the pan. Unbeknownst to me, the pie, with that extra layer on the bottom, didn't cook through. When I proudly cut into it to serve the first slice to my mother-in-law, it dripped into a puddle on the plate. She ate it anyway, too polite to decline.
Another year, Ryan was violently ill, and we were responsible for bringing appetizers: crab dip, spinach dip, bruschetta. I could handle some of it, but since I had never even tried crab, I left it to him. Sick as he was, he had to force himself to pry the crab meat out because I had no idea what to do. My recipe didn't cover that part.
Cooking then was a chore. I took no pleasure in it. It was just me and Ryan, and cooking for two wasn't appealing. Though a spark of interest in cooking was there, it lay mostly dormant. My tastes were limited, so I was satisfied with picking up a premade meal from the store. I was focused on graduate school and my job. Looking back, it would've been the perfect time to learn to cook because even with my commitments there were long stretches of unclaimed time. No crying babies. No dirty diapers. No cluttered house.
Now, two kids later, Ryan and I get out just the two of us once a month. We want to make the most of it, so we choose restaurants carefully. We want really good wine that complements our meal. We want to try new foods. We want atmosphere. We want our time out to be an experience, something to hold onto all the other days of the month when we are not out, when we are not alone.
In fact, we have come to appreciate our dining adventures so much that I want to keep having those experiences even when we can't go out, so I've taken to cooking at home. I peruse Food & Wine and cookbooks by James Beard Award winners. I research wine pairings and make trips to gourmet markets to find ingredients that my regular supermarket doesn't carry. I invite family and friends over to share in the meal.
Without Ryan to help with the girls, I'm not sure I'd be able to do it. I'm not sure I'd even be interested in doing it. But I do have him. I am lucky to not be alone.
My dinners aren't perfect. I admit there are sometimes substitutions. I am aware of the fact that they are not executed with anything resembling the skill of the chef whose recipe I've followed. And I am too new at this to go rogue or to wing it, even after I've made a dish a few times. And of course my girls don't eat it. I've taken to serving dinner for them family-style, so I set out little bowls with food that I think is mostly healthy and that I know they like, and in one bowl I include a small portion of the meal I've painstakingly made. It breaks my heart, but every night the contents of that bowl goes into the trash. Every single night.
|kale salad with fried egg|
Even so, I'm confident that they will eventually come around and try something I've made, and from there, maybe they'll find something they like. I've come to learn that, although the taste of food may have been my initial motivation, the unexpected benefit of my newfound hobby is that it functions as an excuse to get together with friends and family, to have more playdates for my daughters at our house, and to get my husband, my two girls, and myself to gather around the table at the end of the day. Being able to literally and figuratively nourish my family with something that I've worked hard to prepare myself is something that I take pride in, and I imagine I'll be even more proud when I hear that first "yum" from one of my girls.