…get out of the kitchen, right?

I had to tonight.  Stopped home for a quick dinner and my dear husband Ian, by all accounts a great cook, had sauteed some incredibly hot peppers.  I had barely stepped in the door when I was overcome by a vicious coughing attack. 

  Our 2-year-old, Clara, was also hacking away, asking, “What’s wrong?? Mommy sick?? I sick??”

Nope - Daddy’s just trying to kill us, honey.

His mom and stepdad are visiting, and brought us a housewarming gift of brand new pots and pans. Ian of course had to try them out.  Judging by the hot pepper ordeal, they work just fine.

 In his defense, Ian really GOES FOR IT in the kitchen.  He throws in a little of this, a little of that, and suddenly it looks like Emeril stopped by.

I on the other hand am a hopeless disaster.  I’m so terrified of repeating some of my past cooking catastrophes, that I rarely stray from what I’m SURE will work.  Improvising and “spicing things up” is not my forte.  I’ve had far too many important meals end up burned, undercooked, or with missing ingredients… and me, in tears of frustration.

   The thought of being “in charge” of a Thanksgiving meal almost gives me hives.  I can handle making A pie, or some cookies - MAYBE one salad or side dish.  It’s the multi-tasking that kills me.

 I’ve actually called that Butterball hotline in a panic  - the one and only time I really tried to figure out how to do a turkey.

    I say cooking is an artistic talent- you’re either born with the aptitude, or not. 

Ian doesn’t buy this argument. He thinks I’m just afraid to keep trying and failing.

I can do lots of things. I can speak Spanish. I can sing. I can tell stories. I can speak in front of groups of strangers.  I can make kids laugh.  I can swim. I can bike. I can read Dr. Seuss’s “Fox in Socks” -fast - without messing up even once. 

I’m okay with not being a great cook. At least for now.

I don’t need to.

I’m lucky enough to have Ian to make the meals that make guests drool and ask for seconds. 

TS