I hate to cook. Let me be clear, I HATE TO COOK. It doesn’t mean I can’t cook, I just NEVER find enjoyment in it.
Cooking is a chore, plain and simple. When I hear the following phrases like”I needed a big open kitchen since that is where everyone loves to hang out,” or “there is nothing like the smiles on their faces after eating my cooking,” I want to throw up in my mouth.
Here are some of the reasons I detest cooking:
- At the top of my list: you have NOTHING to show for it. It’s gone. It may have taken you 45 minutes to prepare but it’s inhaled in 10.
- There is no guarantee it’s going to come out right. Do you know how many times I’ve tried a dish with $30 ingredients, followed the directions to a t and it comes out tasting like ass? I get so angry knowing I could have skipped cooking and eaten at Chipotle for less.
- It’s a chore. Like cleaning the toilets, it’s a chore.
“I want to come home and chop onions. I want to look like Tammy Faye Bakker 5 minutes into slicing so I can run into the bathroom with stinging eyes and wait it out. I also enjoy then smelling like I just spent 8 hours working in a restaurant. Where do I sign up?”
“I cannot WAIT to make risotto so I can spend 15 minutes scrubbing a pan while my hands become the consistency of sand paper. I don’t need to rest after a 9 hour day. I need to scrub pans!”
“Pedicure? Shopping? Reading? No foolish girl….I want to cook!”
It’s not like I haven’t tried to like cooking. I’ve given what I feel, a decent effort. My first BIG cooking attempt was quiche. I love everything French so why not attempt quiche? I found a recipe in a magazine and headed to Kroger for the ingredients. The grocery list was pretty easy: cheese, egg, pre-made pie crust and a few other ingredients I forget.
Excited to get started, I rushed home to our 1 bedroom apartment and laid everything out on the midget size ledge the apartment called expansive counter spaces.
‘This is too easy,’ I thought. I was so excited for my husband to get home and try what I had prepared. His mother had nothin’ on me.
The quiche came out and voila, it looked like quiche!!! I was so excited and hungry. I had set the table while the quiche had been cooking so we were ready to roll.
I placed my creation between us, sliced the first triangle and politely gave it to my husband. After blowing on it for a few seconds he took a bite, paused in mid chew and furrowed his eye brows.
‘Look ass hole, this is my first attempt so don’t screw with my thunder now,’ I thought.
I blew on my bite, popped it into my mouth and as I chewed I realized something was VERY wrong with this quiche. I began to scrunch my face up tight like I do when something disgusts me.
“Dear God!” I said. “This is awful!”
C being smart, kept his mouth shut and was preparing his second fork full when it dawned on me. The filling of the quiche was perfect; nothing wrong with it. It was the pie crust that was off.
“Dear God!” I said out loud upon realizing what I had done. “I used a graham cracker crust!”
C just looked at me, expressionless. I could tell he was trying to figure out what to do next since I was not only mad and hungry but hangry. I was hangry.
I was so mad at myself. Mad for taking the time and money to buy this and especially mad that all I saw was “pre-made” on the pie shell, paying absolutely no attention that it was for cheesecake.
I’ve since made quiche WITH the proper pie crust though it hasn’t been in years. Since it’s not chicken nuggets or mac and cheese my boys hate it and I think my husband just has flashbacks.