Cooking

I am an awesome cook. The fact that I was the one saying that is completely irrelevant. I can cook and I can do so well.

Okay, to be fair, me cooking isn't actually a pretty sight. The end result just makes up for it. No matter how I get there when I cook it turns out delicious. (There are exceptions on rare occasions.)

There are a few things I cook so often I am damn right awesome at it. These include: grilled cheese, eggs, pancakes, and a basic stir-fry. Anything else, I can cook, so long as I have a recipe and the stuff to make it.

Now getting from ingredients to culinary delite is what's interesting. Without damaging the food, I do a multitude of damage to myself and the area around me.

The sight of me cooking goes as follows:

1. I find a recipe and know I have the ingredients.

2. I get out the required pot/pan/bowl needed for said cooking.

3. I drop the bowl/pan/pot.

4. I pick up pan/bowl/pot and begin combining ingredients.

5. I drop ingredients. If using a knife is involved I cut myself or drop it dangerously close to my bare toes. When opening cans I cut myself, drop them, and spill things.

6. I begin the heating process. Usually not terrible, but I am prone to knocking the wooden spoon out of pans resulting in searing hot food and liquid flying across the room. If I'm using the oven I might bump my hand on the edge, either burning myself or bursting the oven mitt into flames. I might drop the hot pad and try to fish it free of the bottom of the oven using a wooden spoon while frantically hoping it doesn't catch fire. (As a result of this, I had to buy two new oven mitts and have one hot pad that's not suffering from third degree burns.)

7. After the heating, retrieving the food is dangerous. I might knock the pan of popcorn over and step on it burning my feet. Then sweep it up and throw it in the trash can only to melt the trash bag (an actual occurrence). Or all of a sudden my arms might just say "screw you" and I'll topple a pizza over on a chair.

8. Now once I've successfully finished making my food and it's safely on the table, I get to enjoy my food and it's delicious.

My actual cooking is an adventure in slapstick, but the result is well worth the injury.

I imagine watching my cooking is so unbearable to watch that people just walk away cringing. Then when they come back there's this beautiful meal on the plate and they have no idea where it came from. This might be why my mother for the longest time wouldn't believe I could cook.

For years, my mother kept telling me, "you need to learn how to cook." I'd inform that I did know how. She obviously didn't believe me.

At one point when I had a friend over, my mom called and I had a twenty minute phone call about making a burger. I was making one burger. She insisted I use a specific pan. Then she'd ask me to repeat back to her what she just said. Then she'd tell me how to cook the burger then to repeat back everything she'd told me. Twenty minutes of this went on before I could start cooking my poor friend his burger.

At one point I did convince my mom of my cooking abilities by, who'd have thought, cooking dinner.
Afterwards:
My mom: "Why do you say you can't cook?"
Me: "I don't. You say that."
Even though I have cooked many times, it took until I had almost moved out before my mom realized I had kitchen abilities.

My theory is that for years she just left the kitchen when I was in the throws of battle and assumed that when I presented a delicious plate of food to her that I had the KFC bucket stashed somewhere despite our living in the middle of nowhere (and my never having made fried chicken).