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I am humbled by my fellow--much more prolific!--guest bloggers.  Although I miss Bakerina I’m greatly enjoying the flurry of posting in her absence.  And as I am cleaning house, today (literally and figuratively!), I’ve decided it’s time to throw my hat into the ring.

What follows is an article I wrote many moons ago.  In the midst of trying to find someone to publish it, my life (read: marriage) kinda blew up, and lucky for everyone in the blogosphere, this little slice-o-life never made it to print.  So now I can share it with all of you, via PTMYB.  At the time I wrote it, I was feeling great frustration over my lack of time/will/whatever to cook just because.  I’m pleased to report that since then I’ve made my way back, ever so slightly; and my kitchen loves me a little more, now.  But back then… well… read on if you dare:

There are a few hobbies of mine that I am somewhat loath to admit to others.  Or I will be forthcoming with my admission, but immediately make fun of myself before anyone else has a chance to do it.  Crocheting is one of these sorts of things, because really, any type of needlecraft by a woman under 50 is somewhat suspect in today’s society.  I do have a hard time admitting that I crochet without launching into an exaggerated parody of Old Mother Hubbard.  Likewise, I love to cook, but this is not the sort of thing someone like me can freely admit without raising some eyebrows.

Saying “I love to cook” is a loaded statement.  It conjures images of gourmet meals, dinner parties, and shiny chrome kitchen appliances.  It suggests that I do cook and that I cook often and that I cook well.  I may as well say “I love to scale Mt. Everest” for as often as I accomplish either of these feats.  I’m quite certain that no one who’s ever eaten at my house thinks of me as a gourmet.  What I should really say is that I love to watch cooking shows, and I miss the days when I was able to pick a new recipe out of a cookbook or a magazine and 1) shop for the necessary ingredients, 2) prepare the meal as directed, and 3) serve it to someone who cared.  Ah, memories.

Here’s the reality in my house: I have two small children who eat like most small children, which is to say, they rarely eat at all.  Between the two of them I’m dealing with one who adores spicy food and one who can’t tolerate it, one who has texture issues, one who would cheerfully drink a gallon of milk rather than eat one mouthful of food, one who loves green leafies but hates all other veggies, one who loves all veggies that aren’t leafy, and one who has diet-limiting food allergies.  Then there is my husband, who works too many hours and often eats lunch late and/or arrives home an hour or more later than expected.  In my fantasies of motherhood and my plans to lay down the law for family unity, my perfect fictitious family met every night at the kitchen table for a balanced meal that I had painstakingly prepared, and everyone talked and ate and laughed and loved.  The only part of my suppertime fantasy that turned to reality was that we do indeed have a kitchen table upon which food is placed.

I quickly learned that the longer I spend cooking a meal, the greater the chances of my children refusing to even try it, and the more likely that my husband will be delayed at the office.  The corollary to this law is that—contrary to every parenting article I’ve ever read—offering a variety of foods to a picky child merely causes said child to refuse to touch anything on the plate because “some of that icky stuff kinda might’ve touched” the desired food and rendered it toxic.  For a long while I gave up on offering more than one type of food to my kids at any given meal, and then I got smart and bought some divided plates that guard against contamination between foods.  (Sadly, my children also wised up, and now mix their food and then declare it unsuitable.)

My daughter has also reached the age where she needs a sufficient label for a food before she deigns to put it in her mouth.  I look back with nostalgia to the days when I, as a young child, would press my own mother with the dreaded “What is this, anyway?” and my mother would lovingly reply, “It’s poison.  Eat it.” Thanks to the wisdom that aging brings (and many years of intense therapy), I’ve learned my own mantra to share with my daughter on the frequent topic of “What is it?” When she asks, I tell her, “They’re monkey patties!” And my darling daughter, coached by her father, gleefully replies in her best hillbilly voice, “Now that’s good eatin’!” Of course she still doesn’t eat it, but we enjoy the banter anyway, and I’m hoping she’ll need fewer years of therapy than I did.

Over time, I have succumbed to familiarity and convenience.  Soup is good food.  It’s not delivery, it’s Digiorno.  Please make some Kraft macaroni and cheese.  I can’t think of any catchy slogans for chicken nuggets at the moment but I do buy them in industrial-sized bags.  Listen, I tried; I really did!  I made homemade chicken nuggets once and the children behaved as if poisoned.  My homemade macaroni and cheese (with whole-wheat macaroni) was similarly shunned.  I do have a handful of recipes that the entire family will eat, but I wouldn’t dub any of them stunning.  Some of them represent all the different food groups, though.  And when all else fails (or when I’m too tired to think), we drive though “Old MacDonald’s” (complete with mooing and clucking from the carseat set) and get the only food my children will always eat: ketchup.

I still love to watch cooking shows… and to log on to gourmet kitchen supply sites and browse the beautiful kitchen appliances that I lust after.  Maybe I should start my own cooking program.  After all, every cooking show I’ve ever seen has a 6-quart 500-hp Kitchenaid mixer sitting atop a spotless marble counter next to a food processor that can turn brisket into pate in under 6 seconds.  Sure, it’s a gorgeous kitchen, and the food they make looks good, but that’s not life.  I could do something real:

The camera pans in on a cramped kitchen and a crumb-covered formica countertop cluttered with items such as a mooing cookie jar and goody bags from the last birthday party the kids attended.  Instead of a Kitchenaid mixer there is a toaster oven.  Instead of the fancy Cuisinart… a crock pot. 

Me: Welcome to Meals Even You Can Make That Don’t Involve the Microwave.  I’m your host, M—
[Background noise of screaming and scuffling]
Me: You kids stop it right now!!!  Okay, as I was saying…
[sounds of toys being thrown]
Me: Excuse me one moment.
[I leave the kitchen]
[CENSORED]
[I return.]
Me: Alrighty then!  I’ve just turned on Dragon Tales, which means we have exactly 24 minutes to make dinner!  I know, I know, you’re thinking, wait a minute; it’s only 8:30 in the morning.  Funny, huh?  Well, that’s okay!  That’s why God invented crock pots!  Now, take everything in your kitchen that looks like it kind of goes together, chop it up, and throw it in the crock.  Ready, go!

Okay, maybe it wouldn’t make for fabulous entertainment.  But it is what passes for cooking in my house these days.  And I do confess that my life has become mundane enough that throwing a new food into the crock gives me a little thrill.  Yes, this does mean that I need to get out more, but it’s also a vestige of the days when I cooked for the pure joy of it, not just because I am required by law to nourish the underage creatures that roam around my house.

Someday, maybe, I’ll get back to my cookbooks or actually make one of the dishes I see featured on television.  In the meantime, I’ll have to settle for daydreaming about gourmet meals while I make grilled cheese in the toaster oven.  It’s not so bad.  And so far, no one over the age of 10 has complained about the meals I prepare.  There’s always plenty to go around—partly because my kids barely eat and partly because it’s easy to cook in mass quantities when none of the food prep involves julienning, sautéing, whisking, caramelizing, etc.—and I’m always thrilled to have some adult company.  You can come join us any time!  Would you like to come over tonight?  We’re having monkey patties.