Moms Cooking

Everyone talks about their mothers' cooking as if it were some sort of out of body experience.  Nothing else on earth can compare to the culinary efforts put forth by said lady.  Obviously they never ate at my house.

I love my mother, don't get me wrong.  Deliciously dominant with a heart of gold, but her cooking should be outlawed.  The only thing she knew how to cook when I was growing up was beans and weanies, hot dogs and boxed mac and cheese.  On a side note I despise all of these to this day.

As a result of her lack of imagination in the kitchen I began cooking at the age of six.  I soon learned to disregard all of her 'suggestions' on how I should cook anything.  No matter what it was, if she was telling me what to do, it turned out badly. 

I loved to cook.  Loved making up my own recipes, changing the ones I found that intrigued me.  It was a joy.  I think this angered my mother.  She had no flair for throwing something together and making it work.  She tried, I'll give her that, but it always fell just short of edible.

I think her most memorable effort was fried chicken.  I was ten years old and more than willing to help, but she wanted to do it herself.  I think she was trying to prove something to herself.  My family sat at the table, expecting the worst, when she brings out a platter heaped with beautiful pieces of chicken.  They were golden and looked wonderful!  We sat in awe, no words reaching our mouths.  I think we were in shock.  The potatoes were mashed, not enough salt, but a shaker took care of that.  The gravy was extra thick, but when mixed with the potatoes it was alright.  The corn was from a can, not much to mess up there. 

I stared at the chicken on my plate, my mouth drooled, it looked so good!  I will never forget that first bite.  The crust was perfect, crunchy, salty, heaven.  The chicken, however, was raw.  No one said anything, we just ate our side dishes and pretended that nothing was wrong.  My mother sat in silence during the whole meal.  I know she was humiliated and I felt awful for her.  After dinner her and I cleaned off the table together.

We washed the dishes, the quiet becoming uncomfortable.  Finally she sighed deeply and turned to me.  "I am never cooking anything again."

With that, I became the 'official' cook in the house.  My mother and I became partners of a sort.  She set the table, helped me plan meals, even cleaned up as I cooked.  She has never, not since that day, tried to cook anything.  When I grew up and moved away she either ate out, or she bought things she could cook in the microwave.

She tells everyone that she taught me everything I know about cooking.  I let her believe it.