The Girl from Microwavania
Recently, I have received a few of "recipe exchange" e-mails from my girlfriends.
They are, in most cases, a great idea and there is quite a buzz about how fun they are to be part of.
I really like the idea of this process.
First of all, it's a social thing and we all know, I love to be social.
And it's a creative thing.
Well, perfect! I love to be creative!
Unfortunately, it's also a cooking thing.
Herein, the problem lies. I can't cook.
Even though I consider myself quite talented in other homemaking arenas, the truth about my cooking is tragic.
Yes, it is a tragic truth that I have known even as a small girl burning up teeny tiny cakes in my Easy Bake Oven.
The truth is, I have the uncanny ability to screw up even the simplest of recipes.
The truth is, I have the power to burn water.
You are probably thinking at this point, "Surely, she can cook something".
Well, no. It would be comforting to believe that I might have something up my sleeve. Comforting for both you, and for me, and for my family. However, the same sad truth prevails. Even with someone holding a gun to my head, there would be no quick and e-z recipes up my sleeve to save my ass.
Pretty much all of the people I know can whip up a meal in 30 minutes or less. Amazingly, most of them even appear as if they are enjoying themselves and having fun in their cozy kitchens. Pots and pans are clanging, water is running, things are bubbling on the stove, wonderful smells are wafting and tiny tastings are being savored from big wooden spoons.
The talent gene for this sort of culinary frolic must have skipped me.
The pans are cold in my kitchen. I have a couch and a television in there. It is a room where I check my e-mail and work on my blog. I do have a fridge, but it is not full of "ingredients". It is full of beer, diet cokes, ketchup and dozens of extra soy sauce packets that come with take-out sushi. To me, our gas stove is just a huge cigarette lighter that I am incapable of losing. The microwave is different, however. We have come to an agreement. I won't try anything fancy as long as it will continue to work for me. It is my little enabler. My crutch. The only appliance that says, "Hey, it's cool. You are a non-cooking person and so what of it?"
But, even with my microwave love fully in place, I must admit that occasionally I feel a bit isolated because of my lack ability to trade recipes with the girls.
When I receive recipe exchange invitations, I feel a vague twinge of sadness. I tiny bit of loneliness. Almost like there is a hip party going on and I'm the exchange student that was invited out of pity. They're speaking a different language.
I can't help not fitting in.
I'm simply different.
I'm the girl from Microwavania.
I guess there isn't really an end to this story. Only a beginning.
A beginning, because I have decided to as of 2005 to learn the art of cooking.
It is a new resolution. Enough is enough.
I look forward to a day when I can participate in potlucks.
A day when mixers become something to make batter in, not something to stock the bar with.
A day when the fire alarm means FIRE, not time for dinner.
It's a brave new frontier for me, but it is a frontier I must conquer.
So now, it is with fire extinguisher in one hand and a cookbook in the other, that I begin my journey.
One measure at a time.
One meal at a time.
One mess at a time.
Wish me luck!
They are, in most cases, a great idea and there is quite a buzz about how fun they are to be part of.
I really like the idea of this process.
First of all, it's a social thing and we all know, I love to be social.
And it's a creative thing.
Well, perfect! I love to be creative!
Unfortunately, it's also a cooking thing.
Herein, the problem lies. I can't cook.
Even though I consider myself quite talented in other homemaking arenas, the truth about my cooking is tragic.
Yes, it is a tragic truth that I have known even as a small girl burning up teeny tiny cakes in my Easy Bake Oven.
The truth is, I have the uncanny ability to screw up even the simplest of recipes.
The truth is, I have the power to burn water.
You are probably thinking at this point, "Surely, she can cook something".
Well, no. It would be comforting to believe that I might have something up my sleeve. Comforting for both you, and for me, and for my family. However, the same sad truth prevails. Even with someone holding a gun to my head, there would be no quick and e-z recipes up my sleeve to save my ass.
Pretty much all of the people I know can whip up a meal in 30 minutes or less. Amazingly, most of them even appear as if they are enjoying themselves and having fun in their cozy kitchens. Pots and pans are clanging, water is running, things are bubbling on the stove, wonderful smells are wafting and tiny tastings are being savored from big wooden spoons.
The talent gene for this sort of culinary frolic must have skipped me.
The pans are cold in my kitchen. I have a couch and a television in there. It is a room where I check my e-mail and work on my blog. I do have a fridge, but it is not full of "ingredients". It is full of beer, diet cokes, ketchup and dozens of extra soy sauce packets that come with take-out sushi. To me, our gas stove is just a huge cigarette lighter that I am incapable of losing. The microwave is different, however. We have come to an agreement. I won't try anything fancy as long as it will continue to work for me. It is my little enabler. My crutch. The only appliance that says, "Hey, it's cool. You are a non-cooking person and so what of it?"
But, even with my microwave love fully in place, I must admit that occasionally I feel a bit isolated because of my lack ability to trade recipes with the girls.
When I receive recipe exchange invitations, I feel a vague twinge of sadness. I tiny bit of loneliness. Almost like there is a hip party going on and I'm the exchange student that was invited out of pity. They're speaking a different language.
I can't help not fitting in.
I'm simply different.
I'm the girl from Microwavania.
I guess there isn't really an end to this story. Only a beginning.
A beginning, because I have decided to as of 2005 to learn the art of cooking.
It is a new resolution. Enough is enough.
I look forward to a day when I can participate in potlucks.
A day when mixers become something to make batter in, not something to stock the bar with.
A day when the fire alarm means FIRE, not time for dinner.
It's a brave new frontier for me, but it is a frontier I must conquer.
So now, it is with fire extinguisher in one hand and a cookbook in the other, that I begin my journey.
One measure at a time.
One meal at a time.
One mess at a time.
Wish me luck!
posted by anessa arehart at 2/20/2005 10:24:00 AM
6 Comments:
Is this why everytime we worked together at Jozo's, I always worked the food and you always worked the register? Now everything makes sense...
Hope everything is well and have fun moving.
Mark Darbyshire? Small world, huh? Wow.
Ah...Anessa. Funny, funny post, but I feel for you and your cooking journey. Tracy's brother and his wife don't cook. Ever. They only prepare things that can be made in the microwave. So you are not alone. Besides, those of us who do "cook" make plenty of disasters.
This is like the six-degrees of separation theory. I read my wife's blog, where she makes comments about your Lori-lyn's blog, where she has a link to Anessa's blog. Where do I go from there?
Hey kids--- awesome reunion!
Mr. Darbyshire--what a great blast from the past! (is your hair still down to your waist?)
and yes... you figured me out.
Even boiling the bags at Jozo's was too much for me... ha ha. What a sad, sad state of affairs.
Lori Lyn thanks for wishing me well on my journey.
Wanna hear something funny. Right after I posted that, we ordered pizza.
And thanks for the comments--I always wonder who's reading this stuff.
Nope, hair got cut when I became a daddy over four years ago. But the deciding factor for cutting my hair was when I was in a grocery store and saw some mid-50's, overweight, bald-on-top dude with a long, thin, and gray ponytail hanging in the back. He looked pretty stupid with the ponytail on what otherwise seemed like an accountant. That's when I realized "That's gonna be me, old and pathetic trying to be cool." I got it cut a week later.
Funny stuff...but your mother could not cook eithr when we got married...boiling an egg was an adventure...so hang in there..dad
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