Before I started cooking (a lot), I used to cook (a little). I mean, I have always made myself food, but I never really cared much for cooking and looking at recipes. I remember the first time I ever planned a meal, bought the ingredients, and cooked the food. I remember working so hard at the presentation of the meal and caring so much at what the diners (my sisters) thought of it.
It was probably 3 years ago and I was living in an apartment in Atlanta. Emily and Erin were coming to town and I was going to cook dinner for them the night that they got in. I flipped through my first cookbook, Rachel Ray’ Just In Time, and picked the recipe Italian Fish and Chips. I was so excited to make this for the twins and I was nervous because I had never really cooked before. I was so proud of myself when it was over. When we all sat back drinking wine and laughing, I looked at that pile of dish with pride (It took me years to learn how to clean as I go as well). I think that that moment is what made me like to cook.
Do you want to see some pictures of that night? Boy, am I glad that I had my camera ready.
Now, I fiddle around almost every night with recipes and ingredients that are either so great that I wait for John to come home and force feed him (au poivre was one of those recipes) or that I dump down the sink and cry. I have sworn 100 times that I would never cook again out of frustration, but I can never stay away (Bf and I have a recipe we refer to as the “grass porkchop”. Gag.)
This is how I feel sometimes:
* Just as I typed the last sentence about “grass porkchops” this clip came on. It was meant to be. And reeeeeeally creepy.
Meant to be….