Maybe I have watched one too many Disney movies recently, or perhaps my Harry Potter excitement is finally getting to me, but I think I’m under a curse.
I can’t cook a thing, and it’s getting worse.
It would seem by some form of osmosis or just plain luck that someone my age should be able to master a few dishes by now, but the simple process of mixing, mincing, chopping, flambéing, broiling, par-boiling, sautéing, grilling, or baking ingredients together is so far beyond my scope of abilities it boggles the mind.
Even the basic skill of boiling something has eluded me. (“Here Tincan, boil this egg…ahh, call the fire department!”)
There are a few things I can do well, like play the guitar and write songs (I play a killer ‘G’ chord), shoot a basket ball (I’m an utter failure at the other aspects of basketball, like dribbling, passing and playing defense, but watch out world when it comes to playing H.O.R.S.E.) and write, but when I enter a kitchen I break out in cold sweat like a horse passing a glue factory.
This makes me feel like I’m an exhibit in one of those old fashioned traveling freak shows. (“Step right up folks and see the man who can follow the directions on the box or recipe down to the microgram and still have his food taste like it was prepared on the backside of a baboon!”)
The other night I butchered a batch of macaroni and cheese and though the look on my two daughter’s faces said it all, my five year old (Princess Supergirl) tried to make me feel better about my caveman like culinary skills.
“Dad, this is really good. If there was some kind of cooking contest you should enter this.”
When a five year old is taking pity on you and trying to make you feel better you know two things: you have a fantastic kid and you really need to see someone about this (like, perhaps a witch doctor).
This culinary inability extends even to making coffee.
Both my beautiful wife Special Sauce Caldwell and the creative wonder that is my mother have tried to teach me how to do this, showing me the proper water-to-scoop-of-coffee ratio that is best for a robust cup of morning java, but no matter how many scoops I do or how exacting I am in following directions, my coffee is always inferior and bland.
Recently while on vacation the curse briefly lifted and one morning I tasted my coffee and almost died of shock right there in my pajamas.
It was delicious.
My extended family all agreed that I could not have possibly made this pot of coffee, and when the video evidence was reviewed and the startling truth was revealed joyous phone calls were made and faxes were sent: “The curse has been lifted!”
The next morning I confidently scooped out coffee grounds while whistling We Are the Champions and when I smugly put the coffee to my lips a wave of disappointment hit me as the same old bland taste had returned.
The curse had found me while on vacation. It took a day or so to track me down, but like a GPS device the signal had finally came through.
Conversely, my wife has a magical touch with food. She could make a gourmet meal out of tin foil.
After ten years of marriage I’m still amazed at what she can concoct out of the basic elements of food or whatever leftovers are around. I’ll be convinced that there is nothing in the house to eat and on the phone with the Chinese food place down the street and she will calmly serve a fantastic meal that I’m convinced was created by mysterious forces that hide in our pantry.
So needless to say, there is a distinct division of responsibilities in our house, and I will, till the day I shuffle off this mortal coil, happily take out the garbage, scoop the cat box, do all the driving and remove all the headless mice and frogs our cats drag into the house if I can but enjoy the sumptuous meals she serves.
Right now she is currently out of the country finishing up some schooling in Spain and no doubt whipping up a batch of tapas for her roommates, who are no doubt saying the same thing I do (only in Spanish of course). “Wow, how did you make this out of the dust bunnies that are in our cupboards.”
Please hurry home dear; the girls can only eat so many hot dogs.
