Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Cooking with my mother
This weekend, I’m going to see my parents. I don’t visit them all that often—this will be my first trip to their house in a few years. My grandma’s traveling to their place to see me. Three generations of women who cook under one roof!

Now, you’d think this would be an excellent thing. But I’m really dreading it. My mother never taught me to cook. She’s the classic Type A—only moreso. The woman never, ever sits still. And never had the patience to teach me to do anything in the kitchen. Combine that with the fact that kitchen chores were often part of an overall punishment strategy and it may come as no surprise that I didn’t learn to make anything other than Kraft Macaroni and Cheese until I moved into my own apartment for the first time when I was 20 (dorms with meal plans before that).

I love to cook, now, and sort of long for it to be a source of bonding between my mother and me, and/or my grandmother and me. But they still think of me as the kid who can’t cook anything, despite the fact that I’ve cooked for them umpteen times.

So for the visit this weekend, I proposed a multi-soup evening—my mom could make a pot (with meat in it, most likely) and I could make a vegetarian soup. Old friends and more extended family were invited. I was psyched—maybe my mom and I would finally cook at the same time. Granted, it was more like parallel play than anything, but it was a start.

But she called this morning and told me that some random woman staying with them will be cooking soup and my mom’s decided to make a ham. And I can do whatever I want.

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