My mom is the best cook. Not just a cook, the woman is a magician. She doesn't use recipes, measuring cups, or pre-made pie crusts. Her cheese bread is so divine that it only sees the light of day twice a year, and friends and family often petition the month before for an extra loaf to take home.
I, on the other hand, can make only one dessert, Bethenny Frankel's Banana Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies. I have to follow the recipe every time. If you invite me to a party and expect me to cook, that's all you're getting.
My mom longed to teach her oldest girl how to cook. She knew it was important, but I rebelled. I didn't care to sit and watch her make pies, cakes, and meatloafs. I firmly believed I had better things to do, like reading Goosebumps or playing baseball with my sisters. Cooking was for girly girls, and I had no intentions of being one of those.
"What are you going to do when you get married? Your husband's going to expect you to cook," Mom would say.
"I'll marry someone who can cook or make enough money to eat out every meal," I would reply.
Part of this plan actually worked out. My husband is a fantastic cook and loves spending time planning out and executing scrumptious meals. He makes it look easy, which makes me wish I'd paid my mom a little more attention. Because it's not.
The first year we were together, I decided I wanted to bake my husband a cake for his birthday. Knowing me, he'd be totally surprised. His jaw would hit the floor, and he'd know that secretly I had a great talent for cooking. He'd tell all our friends that I was amazing in the kitchen, and I'd be in demand!
My aunt had given me Tupperware for Christmas, and there was a container she swore to me was for baking cakes in the microwave. Take a box of cake mix, add a Sprite, microwave 5 minutes, BAM... cake! I'd frost it, hide the evidence, and say I made it. Foolproof plan...
Except for the fact that anyone who has ever made a cake knows that this is a terrible idea.
I "baked" my cake, and it looked pretty good. I iced it and was so happy to present it to my bewildered husband. One bite, however, told me my plan had failed. Rather than the moist yellow cake I had planned, the thing in front of me was as tough as a shoe.
"It's terrible," I moaned.
My husband ate his whole piece. "It's just not a cake," he said. "We'll call it a loaf."
We never finished the cake loaf. I threw it out a few days later. We still laugh about it every birthday and whenever I bake cookies.
I have yet to try baking another cake. One day I'll have my mom teach me how from scratch. One day...
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