I like cooking. Truly, I do. And I’ve learned a lot about it in the seven years since I got married.
See, the kitchen is pretty much my domain. In those misty days before our wedding, when Scott and I talked about how our household would run, we had these airy fantastic plans: we’d share the meal planning, the cooking, the grocery shopping. We’d alternate dinner duty, so neither one of us novice cooks got stuck in the kitchen every night.
Wild little fantasy, wasn’t it?
It took about a week for me to become the official chef in the Moyer household. This was largely because of my schedule: being a teacher, I get home earlier than Scott does. It just made sense for me to handle dinner. (In fairness, Scott does grill quite a lot. I often think of the comedian Rita Rudner wondering why men love to grill, and deciding that it’s because grilling involves DANGER). And, honestly, I don’t mind. My growing repertoire of recipes actually makes me kind of proud. I’m hardly a gourmet cook, but I am a solid, respectable one: somewhere between Chef Boyardee and Julia Child, say.
Still, over the years I’ve had enough epic failures to be able to appreciate this quotation.
“What does cooking mean?”
It means the patience of Job and the persistence of the Pilgrim Fathers.
It means the endurance, the long-suffering, and the martyrdom of Joan of Arc.
It means the steaming and the stewing and the baking and the broiling, thrice daily, spring and summers and autumns and winters, year after year, decade after decade.
It means perspirations and desperations and resignation.
It means a crown and a harp and a clear title to an estate in heaven.
— Haryot Holt Cahoon
Image courtesy of karenswhimsy.com