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The people who have known me for a long time would make a face. Or pause in disbelief. Or choke on food. Or die from a bout of laughing fit. That's because of all the people that they've known, I'm the person who would not be caught dead donning an apron. I could not blame them. When I was younger, I would not go to within a 100 meters from a spatula.
My mother is a great cook. There is absolutely nothing that she couldn't do in the kitchen.Give her a whale and she will cook the hell out of it. Her being old-fashioned and me being the eldest, not to mention a girl, she had expected me to take over her crown in the kitchen. Unfortunately, I did not have a thread in my whole body that was interested in any house chores. But we are talking about my mother here, who must have been a drill sergeant in her past life. My non-interest did not stop her from hammering me all the time with house chores in the hope that by constant exposure, the chores would somehow integrate themselves into my being and become a habit. I'm sorry, mother. No can do. Which is not to say that I didn't try. A part of me believes that had she been more appreciative, I'd have a reason to try harder. On the other hand, I could not really blame her for being less adoring. I admit, I totally suck. My cooking had never been just right.It's either to salty or blah. On some occasion, my mother would say, "Wow, now I know how the ocean tastes like." Other times, she would say, "I feel like I'm eating paper." Yes, I suck that bad. On the other hand, my dear little brother, now an engineer, had always been a mama's boy and true to mama's boy fashion, he went around poking his nose into every single one of her business that when he was about 2 year old, my mother accidentally hit his face with a hot electric iron. He was always around her all the time. He was like a shadow she could not shake away. I think that's what made him assume the role that my mother, in her delusion, thought that I would play: the next cook of the family. It was a role that suited him to a tee because he was fat, he loved food, he liked to cook and... he was fat (I am suspicious of thin chefs.). I had actually thought that my brother coming into light with his spatula-welding ability would free me from the pressure of my mother's old-fashioned-ness. Boy, was I wrong.
Mother: Don't think for one second that you could get away from me with the kind of handicap you are harboring. (Yes, for my mother, a woman's inability to cook is a handicap, an offensive handicap.)
Me: Give me a break. mother. Gorick can cook. He would gladly do it for you.
Mother: I do not mean that you do it for me. Do it for yourself. Do it for your future husband.
Me: Mother, you underestimate me. I do not need to cook for myself. Trust me. Food will make itself available to me, ready to be eaten when I need to. As for my future husband, if he has any decency in him, he will cook for me.
I am so appalled by my mother's lack of confidence in my ability to choose a mate. Mother, I will never saddle myself with someone who is not good enough to cook his meal. At the very least he should be good enough to buy it. That's unfair, she would say, why would you expect him to cook when you can't cook yourself? Because, mother, even if he ends up being saddled with me who is not good enough to cook her own meal, he would still be lucky anyway (ahem).
Mother: That's the point you wanted to make? Oh boy, he is so gonna starve.
But people grow up and change. You suddenly find yourself showing interest for things you have no inclination for when you were younger. That's what happened to me. Maybe I missed my mother's home-cooked meal. Perhaps it's my desire to constantly improve myself. Or maybe I just wanted to prove my mother and myself wrong by doing something we both thought I would never do. Whatever it is, I now find myself wanting to flex my muscles in the kitchen. I'm still not gonna do it for any guy though. If I can cook, I would become too good for any man.
