My failures in the kitchen are legendary.
It started way back when DH and I were dating. I cooked a romantic homemade dinner: salmon loaf and cherries jubilee. The salmon loaf was raw in the middle (he ate it anyway, and I knew then I was marrying the man!), and I caught the carpet on fire with the cherries jubilee.
When DD was almost three I decided to join this recipe club. I don’t remember exactly what it was I made, but it had the word burgandy in it. I drank much wine while cooking it, had the best time of my life. And the minute DD took a bite she spit it out and said "Pizza night." DH didn’t even try it. I did, and DD was right. Inedible.
There was the time I baked the potatoes too long (yes, you really can do that!). I pulled them off the grill, said something about them being too hard still, but into them and a puff of smoke came out. All that was left was potato skins.
And the time I caught the tostada shells on fire.
And… well, the list goes on and on and on.
For years I really tried to be a domestic goddess. Paula Dean makes me happy. I watched the Food Network thinking something might rub off.
So when DD sent me her shopping list for Thanksgiving, I was a bit surprised. Somehow this child of mine is a cook. A good cook. She loves making big, complicated recipes. And they taste good.
I don’t get it. She’s had exactly zero instruction in cooking, and she’s good. I had my grandma and her fried chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes, homemade biscuits, garden grown veggies and my dad who is AMAZING in the kitchen. The only person I had who couldn’t cook was my mom. She makes my kitchen failures look amateur. We both have ADD.
DD had ADD too. But she’s great in the kitchen. Strange. But I’m thankful.
AND thankful she’s home from school too, even though she got a ticket on the way here!