Two little girls, both 11 and giggly, were sitting in the back seat of my car, girl-talking on a recent Saturday evening. One of the girls, the one with my blood flowing through her veins, stopped the chattering for a moment and said to me, “You know, Mom, you’re a great cook.” Her best friend chimed in, “Yeah, Auntie Dawn, we love your food.”
I looked over my shoulder and rolled my eyes at them. Of course, it was easy for me to be a “great cook” and for them to “love” my food when we were on our way to get pizza for dinner.
A digression: The car is the perfect vehicle for discovering things about your child. Rummaging through the bedroom, although clearly a violation of privacy, is not a bad place either.
But when they’re 11, an age when life is still quite tame, rummaging through the bedroom is nowhere near as revealing as picking through a conversation between two girls navigating their lives from the back seat of your car.
What I was trying to figure out at that moment was why they were bent on buttering me up. (Pun intended.) End digression.
My daughter and her best friend continued to talk (or should I say fib?) about my culinary prowess. And the friend who, mind you, has eaten at my house on several occasions, continued to agree.
In a sincere, albeit yeasty, proclamation, my daughter said: “Really, Mom, you don’t believe us? You’re a fantastic cook.” The other child said, “We really mean it.”
What? Could they be serious?
The smoke detector goes off in my house and that’s how everybody’s summoned to a meal. It is true that for much of my child’s life I’ve cajoled and bargained: Eat what’s on your plate–just chew and swallow really, really fast–and you can have all the dessert you want. Is it possible that she has never really tasted my cooking? As for the other child, I don’t know, defective taste buds, maybe.
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In a restaurant-type review, my cooking would be most aptly described in this way: “It’s not end-up-in-the-emergency-room fare, but edible enough if you’re really, really hungry.”
No, I am not a great cook. And I warn newcomers to my home that they shouldn’t be fooled by the fancy bottles of pomegranate- or rosemary-infused olive oil that sit atop the counters (as decorations) or the shelves and tables of cookbooks throughout the kitchen (also decorations).
I get these ideas from cooking shows, for which I have a deep affinity. In fact, I’ve watched so many cooking shows over the years that I secretly talk to myself when I’m preparing a meal. The voice running through my head is an odd mixture of Julia Child and Rachael Ray.
First you get the bowl from the cupboard. It’s a nice ceramic bowl, see? Quite sturdy. Then you retrieve the box of cereal and open it like this. Now watch as I release its contents into the bowl. And, look, I don’t even have to measure … Now you pour the milk … and yum-o!
My husband used to see me taking notes while watching Rachael or Emeril. In the beginning he thought something would come of it. As if something is supposed to come of watching TV, right? I don’t have any expectations when I watch him watching a Sunday afternoon football game.
My mother is a wonderful cook and so is my father-in-law. In the tradition of a great Southern cook, he smothers all vegetables in so much butter that they begin to taste like they’ve jumped into a different food group. Around the holidays, I always try to mimic a few of his dishes, and my daughter says with delight: “Wow, our kitchen smells just like grandpa’s,” which is a huge compliment.
As for the girls’ comments on my cooking while we were on our way for pizza? It reminded me of the way I felt when I was a bit younger than they are now and given to superlatives.
I thought about the afternoon when I was waiting with my father in an airport terminal. He had bought me a hot dog and we were standing in front of a window watching planes take off and land. Before I even took a bite, I looked up at him and said: “This is the best hot dog I’ve ever had.”
I suppose there’s something to be said about still being young enough to take an ordinary moment and not have to deconstruct it or noodle over it, but simply partake of its joy.
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