Recently my MIL asked me if I could cook and I answered, “Well, that depends on your definition of cooking and your level of expectations.”
I used to think that if I can make something I can eat, it means I can cook. Until I realised that what I can eat and what others may deem palatable may not quite fit into the same category. And then I thought about it again and realised that I can cook. If my hubby, one of the fussiest eaters I have ever met can tell me that my Ginger and Spring Onion Beef is one of the best he’s ever tasted, then I’ve got to have some merit as a cook, don’t I?
In fact, anyone that can follow a recipe can definitely cook and I can definitely follow a recipe. So why do I go out of my way to give everyone the impression that I can’t cook? Or at least, why do I think I can’t cook?
Well today, I finally realised why… It isn’t that I can’t cook. It is that I am like a child in the kitchen. I can’t stop myself from experimenting. If I just stuck to the tried and tested ways, there’s never any problem. It is when I decide to get creative that things begin to fall apart.
I don’t know what it is that possesses me when I am in the kitchen. I get all these crazy ideas of mixing things together thinking it’s going to turn out okay but it almost never does. Like today, I tried to incorporate Gavin’s rice cereal into my bolognaise sauce because I thought it was such a waste that he doesn’t eat his rice cereal any more.
So how did it turn out? Well, let’s just say that the sauce was salvageable, but I would never make it like this again - ever. I’ll also be eating bolognaise for lunch for the next couple of days. It would have been the next week if I hadn’t convinced the maid to try some for lunch. Poor girl… I’ve made her a victim of my mad science.
Sigh… Why do my fingers get so itchy in the kitchen? Why? Why? WHY??
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