5-20-02, Lisa Laird
Lisa's Lair
By Lisa Laird
IPS Features
“Canning the Kitchen”
Cooking is extremely fashionable these days; I’m
not in style. Growing up, I had an
unfavorable impression of the culinary arts as a result of my mother’s
aversion to the task. Usually, when
my parents said it was time for dinner, we all ran to the car.
That’s just the way it was.
When first living on my own in my early 20s, mealtime
was a pain in the hassle. Every
week, I went through the ritual of food shopping.
I would walk confidently into the supermarket, pushing the wobbly cart
through the automatic doors. Once
inside, I made my way up and down the aisles.
It was such a tedious and unpleasant task, in my eyes, that I did it with
boredom and indifference. None of
the foods on the shelves appealed to me if they required any type of
preparation. If I could open a box,
bag, or wrapper, I threw it in the cart. If
it could be micro waved in its original container, even better.
Finding nutritious no-prep meals was a real challenge, so, I had a very
limited menu each week. Therefore, I opted to eat out quite often, frequenting
restaurants more often than anyone else I knew. Eating out was not a treat; it was a vital way of life.
The women whom I worked with were constantly exchanging
recipes with one another. They
spoke of entertaining guests in their homes with extravagant dinners.
I felt like an outcast and it bothered me.
I was determined to change my deficient ways.
I then bought an index box with cards and began collecting recipes from
various sources.
The first meal I was looking forward to creating was a
chicken and rice dish. My former
friend, Debbie, served it to me several times at her home and I relished every
mouthful. So, I gathered all the
ingredients together and carefully followed the recipe she wrote for me.
I had previously observed her preparing this dish from start to finish,
so I knew I’d do a good job duplicating the procedure.
When the timer buzzed, I uncovered the pot with anticipation and peered
inside. To my dismay, the meal
looked like slushy soup. I put the
cover back on and decided to continue cooking the slop until the water absorbed.
Of course, the other nightmare occurred, I burned all the rice on the
bottom of the pot.
The meal was not edible and tossed in the garbage
without hesitation.
Another culinary disaster etched in the corner of my
mind occurred the first week in a new apartment I rented. I bought a brand new microwave oven and wanted to explore its
capabilities. I decided to cook
chicken cutlets. Well, I set the
cooking time according to the booklet that accompanied the oven. Without realizing, I gave a few small cutlets the same amount
of time as a whole chicken breast on the bone.
My chicken turned into what looked like thick black tar and radiated a
noxious odor I thought would get me thrown out of my new place.
Thankfully, it didn’t.
I even tried my hand at entertaining a few friends for
dinner one evening. I prepared a
beef stew. When it was all cooked
and I starting serving, I noticed I never doubled the recipe.
I cooked for two instead of four. For
a split second, I considered serving a lot of bread with the meal, hoping no one
would be the wiser. Whom was I
kidding? The remedy was simple…we
ordered pizza. True, I was
humiliated at the time, but time heals most wounds.
These days, almost everyone I speak with seems to be a
galloping gourmet. The majority of
men and women I know rave on about creating their tasty masterpieces.
No longer do I hide the fact that I’m a lousy cook who has no desire to
improve, nor, am I ashamed to admit it blatantly.
Agree, disagree, or question me all you like.
Just don’t ask me to cook.
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