The Tentative Chef

I don’t cook, and I’m not a clever writer. So, I’m not entirely sure what has possessed me to share my cooking travails. Let me back up. It’s not that I don’t cook. It’s that I’m very very bad at it and seek to avoid it at all times. But I can no longer avoid it.

How bad of a cook am I? Well, about 90% of my kitchen exploits end in either a) an injury or b) inedible food. Sometimes both.

How I ended up in the kitchen

Here’s the story: My full-time job recently ended when the company I worked for abruptly stopped working. So for the moment, I’m a freelance writer and editor and full-time dog mom (really, he doesn’t need much – he’s a quiet little guy and just wants to be acknowledged and taken outside every so often). And I’m at home much of the day.

So I suppose it wasn’t unreasonable when my dear husband turned to me after a few weeks of me being home and asked me if it would be at all possible to maybe, possibly come home to dinner once in a while. He’s perfectly in the right to ask this. You see, my husband cooks. He cooks a lot, and he cooks well. He’s the kind of guy who can go from random ingredients to interesting meal with no recipe in the middle. And he bakes, too. And makes ice cream. For much of our marriage – when his commute was shorter than mine and he got home earlier – I came home every single night to a hot dinner waiting for me, cooked by him. Even today, he cooks on the weekends, he sometimes cooks on weeknights, and he does all of the grocery shopping. So, he was well within his rights to wonder if it was possible once-in-awhile to have a homecooked dinner.

This prospect filled me with fear. I really hate cooking. And I am convinced the kitchen hates me, too. Really – I have a few burn scars to prove it, plus some healed bumps and bruises.

Here are the things I have typically cooked: chicken soup from scratch (Mom’s recipe), which is much harder to screw up than you would think; a Passover seder once a year (a full-day of cooking involving at least a dozen calls to my mother and one crying jag); and we’ve kind of reached the end of my repertoire.

Of course, I slightly exaggerate: There is a chicken dish I make, and a few bean and pasta soups – but all only under duress. And I’m pretty sure my husband is sick of the five dishes I’ve been cooking for the entire 10 years we’ve been married. It’s time I learned how to cook.

For what to expect in this blog, see What Is the Tentative Chef About?