There are many, many people in this world whose grandmothers were good cooks. I know this because I have heard these very people talk about their grandmothers’ sauces, pies, breads, or pot roasts like someone in love. They get a glassy, dreamy look in their eyes. The soft, yellow light of Reagan-era American propaganda advertising illuminates their memories. They glow from within. They begin to describe the tasty delights of their childhood days in poetic terms . . .
I am not one of these people.
My grandmother had a magnet on her refrigerator that read, “I kiss better than I cook.” I not only inherited that magnet but my grandmother’s culinary skills, or lack thereof, to boot. I would like to be a good cook. I really would. I would like to be able to bake something without burning it or having people ask if I tried frosting it with my left hand. I would like to make it through a recipe without having an anxiety attack about how badly things are going. However, I am beginning to realize that if I want to be good at cooking, I actually have to cook something.
The problem is that I just don’t like it. I’ve heard people say that they find it relaxing. Not a chance. I’m starting to feel anxious right now from attempting to write a descriptive paragraph about what stresses me out in the kitchen. (Seriously. Maybe I need cooking therapy.) I’ll just sum up: everything about the kitchen stresses me out. Everything. I pretty much avoid the room at all costs. I eat a lot of cereal.
So, what’s a domestically disabled girl to do? I should take a deep breath and power through this, but when Scarlett is underfoot, screaming and slamming her head into my pelvis, toast always seems like a better option than whatever I briefly thought about making, which, to be perfectly honest, was probably just a variation on toast anyway.