Only 9 more days until I miraculously learn how to cook. Non-cooking. It’s an art I’ve strived to perfect my whole life. And I’ve pulled it off so far. Except for two days out of the year; Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I learned the art of non-cooking from my Mother. She cooked, but she was a bad cook. I mean really bad. Awful. Chicken was tossed into a pan, doused with garlic salt and baked. Then served. uck. I mean really, UCK. To go with the chicken, frozen peas were dumped in a pot of boiling water and served. Shudder. To this day, I still won’t eat peas. I even avoid having to boil water.
Normally I wander around the grocery store in a zombie haze. I don’t understand how the ingredients in the store can be transformed into gourmet meals. I know somehow that hunk of packagedmeat in the butcher section is supposed to come out as some kind of tasty pot roast or something, but exactly how it morphs into that is beyond me. I hear the word par-boil and my eyes start to glaze over.
But twice a year the spirit of Betty Crocker miraculously inhabits my body. Somehow cornbread dressing is made from scratch. Sweet potato soufflé, sweet ambrosia, deviled eggs, a golden turkey, and more. It all makes sense. Words like dice, sauté, and simmer become part of my vocabulary. AND, when it’s all said and done, it’s edible.
It’s MORE than edible… it’s actually delicious.
I know it is, cause my KIDS say so and believe me, if it sucked, they’d be the first to run screaming from the table.
They’ve done it before.
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