What's Really Eating Me

I have never, ever felt confidant about my cooking.

In fact, whenever we receive an invitation to a friend's house for dinner, one of the first emotions I experience is dread.

Why?

Because it means that someday I'll have to return the invitation and cook dinner for them, too.

When I was living at home, my mother constantly offered to teach me how to cook. She is a wonderful cook, and her signature dishes -- Spanish Rice and Beans, Hungarian Goulash, and Homemade Samosas -- left me begging for more. But I far preferred being her taster than her assistant, and I left home not knowing how to make anything other than toast and Ramen noodles.

When I got married, I garnered a new enthusiasm for cooking. My husband was game, and he thought it would be fun to learn how to cook together. But the few dishes we tried turned out bland. We went back to eating pasta, rice, or baked chicken every single night.

Every once in a while, I'd come across a new dish in a magazine or on a cooking show. I'd head to the store armed with scratched notes and a list of spices I'd never heard of before. But in between the simmering and the mashing and the mixing, something always went wrong. I'd never try making the dish again.

Soon after I had children, though, I started thinking about cooking again. We were consuming far too many highly processed or frozen foods. Something needed to be done. I began exploring fresh vegetables that I had never tasted except in their canned form. I realized how much sodium or sugar went into soups or sauces. I was horrified at the never-ending list of additives and preservatives. I got out the never-used wedding pots and pans, and plodded my way through ingrediants.

I started out small -- beans from scratch. The first dozen times I made them, they were horrible. I know what you're thinking -- how can one screw up beans? But trust me, I did. Some days I wouldn't put in enough water, and they'd burn to the bottom of the pot. Other days they were too watery. During other attempts, they were too bland or too salty or so spicy  -- we couldn't eat them without gulping down a glass of water after each bite.

I tried a dozen other dishes during the year I was on maternity leave. They were mediocre to terrible, but we ate them anyway. And every once in a while, something would pass as OK.

It's been several years now that I've been cooking, and while I can't say I'm a very good cook, I can say that I can do some dishes well. I still don't have a lot of confidence, but I've realized that I'm not the kind of person who is going to be able to follow a new recipe for the first time and have a dish turn out perfectly. I give myself three tries with a new recipe. By the third time, either it's great, or it's so bad I never try it again.

This past week, my in-laws were in town. On the menu for Christmas Day was a split pea soup recipe that I'd only tried two other times, corn on the cobb, and my signature penne pasta with broccoli, grape tomatoes, and chick peas. I also made eight dozen oatmeal chocolate chip walnut cookies.

To my total surprise, everyone loved everything. And for the first time since I've cooked for others, I felt great about the results. Perhaps it's time to get out a few new recipes, and give them my all.