Cooking and the Modern Writer

My kids think I can’t cook.

Well, maybe not that I can’t cook, but more like that I can’t cook good. I’m really not sure why they think that. I’m a great cook. Someday they need to start tipping the chef/waitress/hostess of the Welborn Café. And they need to stop groaning when I say we’re having dinner at the Welborn Café.

Uggh, children. Gotta love ’em since ya gave birth to them.

Every night for dinner and for lunch on Sunday, I used to always put a tablecloth on the table, give all seven of us matching Longaberger blue luncheon plates, a set Oneida Kenwood silverware in the correct spot, and fill our Mikasa goblets (okay, the kids normally get Tupperware cups) with a chilled--and often--iced beverage.

I was soooooo channeling Martha Stewart. (And I don't even believe in channeling.) Lately, though, I use whatever plates I grab first, which could be the chipped Noritake stoneware. Thanks to a few forks and spoons tossed in the trash, I no longer use my Oneida Kenwood and now use what has to be the thinnest, lightest weight silverware Oneida makes. One really shouldn't complain when, at least, each place setting matches. Mismatched silverware...well, that's a post for another day.

The only thing I never have on the table is candlesticks because...well, boys and fire are combustible. And even if I did manage to convince hubby to leave the burning wicks alone, there's no telling which child--male or female--will start messing with the candles. Fire is a request to shut the wise part of the brain down.

Now, does it matter that macaroni and cheese makes a wonderful side dish with practically anything? Why can’t they see how I take care not to have all orange foods or all white foods? Will they ever notice that I strive to ensure the meal food colors, shapes, and textures vary (except on the days when we have cereal for dinner)?

Last Saturday, we had a dinner party with friends. Rotisserrie chicken, yellow rice with red and green pepper bits, pan-fried mini yam cubes seasoned with allspice, salad with Oklahoma pecans, green beans, and Ukrops parker house rolls. Not only yummy, but visually appealing.

In my almost 16 years of being a mom, I’ve discovered that you don’t have to follow a recipe exactly. If you don’t have baking powder, you can substitute baking soda mixed with cream of tartar. Or is that the other way around?

I made a coffeecake once using a yellow cake mix (mixed according to box instructions), butter, and crushed Oreo cookies. My creation tasted darn good. Of course, no one wanted to eat it until my hubby guinea-pigged through the first piece, but once he did and raved about it, the pan was emptied in seconds.

Teenagers need to be less suspicious of unknown foods.

Okay, I’ll admit I’m not a great cook. I’m no Martha Stewart. But I do watch Iron Chef of American. Yes, it’s to see Bobby Oh-Please-Flay-Me, but as I’m watching, I’m absorbing great cooking skills because I recognize that I’m a visual learner.

When we were first married, my hubby decided to make some chocolate chip cookies all on his own. I heard him banging around in the kitchen for days upon days.

Finally, he yelled, “Honey, if your cookies are kinda runny, what do would you do?”

“Add more flour.”

Minutes later he said, “More flour isn’t working.”

“How much extra did you add?”

“Two cups.”

With my Julia Child-shocked-expression, I headed to the kitchen. I picked up a container. “You added this to the dough?”

“Yes,” he said, glaring at me as if I were not Julia Child.

Controlling my laughter, I said, “This is powdered sugar, not flour. Couldn’t you smell the difference, see the difference, taste the difference?”

Let’s just say he wasn’t too pleased with my comment. Uggh, husbands. Gotta love 'em since ya vowed before 250 people that ya would till death did ya part.

I’m good at some things, but not all things.

In my crit group, each of us are good at some things, but not all things. As one of my CP so eloquently said once, “We each bring something different to the table.” Another way of saying that is “We each have a part, a job, a skill, a strength that benefits someone else.”

The human body has many parts, but the many parts make up only one body.

What your foot said, “I’m tired of only being a foot. I want to be a hand so I can touch things or an eye so I can see Bobby Flay cook”?

Or liver: “I’m sick of processing toxins. Lemme be the tongue so I can taste the food before it turns nasty.”

Or ear: “Two’s a crowd. I’m leaving so I can be the only ear.”

Or toosh: “I’m tired of people’s crap. I want to be a mouth so I can enjoy Bobby Flay’s barbeque.”

I believe God placed each part of our bodies in the prime spot for them to do the exact things for which they were created to do. Even the parts of the body that seem weakest aren’t purposeless. Imagine not having a thumb. Or no hair in your nose. That hair has a purpose. Not a purpose I really want to think about at the moment, but a purpose nonetheless.

Fortunately, in a human body, each part does its job. A heart can only pump blood and not chew Twizzlers. If it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do, you need a new heart. Or you’re dead.

In a family, a crit group, or even a writing organization, sometimes the wrong part is doing the wrong job, which causes stress and discouragement because the part isn’t doing what it was created to do. Square peg in a round hole. And sometimes a part is letting another part do its job.

Is it time you stepped back and let someone else have the spotlight?

Maybe is it time you stepped up and took a more active role?