Seven

Better than Success

After many anniversaries together, Mike confided in me that when we first married, he had some concerns over my culinary abilities. I picture him weighing the pros and cons of me, and I imagine top of the con list was my general lack of imagination and talent in the kitchen. Sure, I could whip up a mean bowl of Success rice. My salads consisting of only iceburg lettuce and Ranch dressing were legendary. And no one could touch my mastery of the Chef-Boy-Ardee boxed pizza. (I’m not kidding on that last one. Mine were stellar.)

Now, however, I love to cook. I love to be in the kitchen with four burners going, leaving a giant counter mess in my wake. Part of the excitement is the timing, the thrill of planning for three or four pieces to come together in the prep puzzle at the exact moment. Even writing this, it makes me happy. Another part is the creativity it takes. No, it’s not like I’m the next Matisse, nor will my decision of whether to use basil or thyme change the world, but it’s just fun to play with meal ideas in general or ingredients in particular. There’s a momentary surge of delight when something new comes to mind to try, or I stumble on a recipe that I could actually tackle and my family would actually eat.

I also love to play with ideas or experiment. In my repertoire, there exist a few mommy-created dishes that have become family favorites. Mommy’s Mexican Lasagna, Mommy’s BBQ Pot Pie, Mommy’s Quiche. The amount of pride that elicits in me is downright goofy. 

Now, before I invoke images of Julia Child, let me make it clear that I cook on the most user-friendly of levels. I won’t touch a recipe if I don’t recognize words in it. I couldn’t identify chard in a line-up, and I wouldn’t even know which aisle contains truffle oil. Blanching a vegetable is beyond my capabilities, as is using a simple food processor (I prefer to chop). My meat options are primarily limited to chicken and turkey because of my daughter’s recent insensitivity to beef and my family’s dislike of most seafood (a situation I try to remedy from time to time when I feel strong enough to handle the groans that come with serving it). In fact, if you have to categorize my favorite “genre” of  food prep, it’d be more “down home cooking with a healthier flare” than gourmet, for sure. Truthfully, there’s nothing special about my meals or my cooking.

It’s just that I love it. The evolution from culinarily awkward to culinarily cocky came over time, but most notably after our daughters were born. When I was a stay-at-home mom to two babies and then two toddlers, being in the kitchen to make dinner meant being by myself for almost an hour to think, use my brain, not be responsible for anything but my creativity. I fell in love with the execution of it first; the fun of planning and the need for preparation followed. Slowly but surely I learned core “must haves,” items necessary to make up something last-minute or used in the Lynch family dishes often. Through the years, my confidence grew, as did my range of standard creations. I found that cooking was fun.

But more than that, I’m inspired by one thing and one thing alone when I cook: the response of those at the table. My nephew and niece love my cooking, which propels me to try new things for them or make their favorite dish. My brother comes for dinner a couple of times a month, and I feel compelled to provide something delish for this bachelor. For some reason, and I’m not sure what empty void this fills in me, I delight when someone says what I made tastes good. Perhaps it’s the primal urge to provide sustenance for others, or dole out love through a serving of something homemade. For whatever reason, eliciting a chorus of yummmmms makes me feel solidly accomplished, good at something important, even if for just a few minutes. I guess that’s what pride is.

Lest you fancy me a domestic goddess, let me make a couple of things clear: I leave the kitchen a hot mess, which my husband graciously helps me clean. And I am a mom, after all; there are at least two, usually three (and sometimes four, let’s be honest), when I’m too tired or too busy, so it’s leftovers or Chipotle or dollar-taco-night at the nearby Mexican restaurant. Dance carpooling at all hours will occasionally necessitate a Chic-fil-A run, and of course we revel in the “Breakfast for Dinner” plan (which is really just a parent’s ruse for having nothing in the kitchen and no brain power left with which to think). But even two good meals a week makes me happy.

All of this is relatively silly in the grand scheme of the world’s problems and solutions to fix them. Mommy’s French Toast with Caramel Sauce is not going to bring world peace or end global hunger, as much as I wish it could. It’s just that for one second last night, when Mike was cleaning up the dishes and proclaimed, “That was really, really good, hon” and the girls echoed in agreement, I felt that primal, prideful joy. The kind that encourages me to keep trying, keep shopping in crowded grocery stores, spending way too much money on organic foods, keep planning and doing in the kitchen. Keep filling my babies’ bellies for as long as I can.