The Fun of Cooking

Things I used To Do Again

I recently watched a rerun episode of MasterChef Junior. And was awed and a bit envious as a group of young people prepared elaborate dishes using fancy techniques I’d never heard of. An eight-year-old making a seared ribeye with glazed onions, chimichurri, and bone marrow butter. What!?!

When I was that age, the one thing I could make was scrambled eggs. Eventually I graduated to making omelets. One time to liven things up, using what limited ingredients available, I added hotdogs and lettuce. In case you’re curious, they do not pair well with eggs. But it was sort of fun.

It was a slow simmer for my curiosity and creativity to enter the kitchen. The kitchen was intimidating, even frightening. Maybe this was more about food than cooking. Food wasn’t always accessible. When things were tight the fridge and shelves were pretty bare. And my relationship with food was reduced and elevated by adults who used it as punishment and reward.

Starved for attention and validation I worked hard to earn it. Like the time I tried to recreate a barley soup that everyone loved. Without a recipe I improvised. And had no idea that a little barley went a really long way or that pouring in the whole box was like adding a sponge. The barley soaked up everything and it was totally revolting and inedible. Another time I thought I’d surprise everyone with a fresh batch of no-bake cookies. The oven had two settings. Bake and Broil. So, no-bake cookies must be broiled, right? No. And putting a full tray of no-bakes under the broiler made a mess that was never fully cleaned up.

These mistakes became more feed for jokes and ridicule. Another thing I got wrong. Another reason to be ashamed. Another message I internalized about not being good enough and convincing me I shouldn’t even try. Especially in the kitchen. The kitchen was stressful. A laboratory of risk. Certainly not fun.

Like so many, I turned to cooking and baking to pass the time during the early isolated months of the pandemic. I ordered groceries for delivery twice. The first time all my bags were delivered to the wrong building and I had to chase them down. The last time, my order was missing several items and included some extras. I ordered three zucchinis and received more than a dozen.

“This is my invariable advice to people: Learn how to cook—try new recipes, learn from your mistakes, be fearless and above all have fun.” - Julia Child

Taking the great Julia Child’s advice, I decided above all to have some fun. I made a list of possible things I could make with zucchini. And when I ran out of ideas, I called my mom and my grandmother. I received a text from an aunt who seldom reached out, saying “grandma told me about all the zucchinis, here’s a brownie recipe.”

That weekend I made zucchini bread with and without nuts. Zucchini muffins. Zucchini fritters. Zucchini boats; some with taco meat, cheese, and salsa and others with Italian sausage and pasta sauce. Zucchini and chicken casserole. Zucchini hash browns. Zucchini brownies.

2 loaves of my Zucchini creations.

I also made a wild mess and had wonderful fun in the process. And for the first time I didn’t let those old memories of barley soup and no-bake cookie mistakes keep me from trying new things. That weekend all the fears and anxieties of the pandemic lost their hold on me. Cooking and baking did what nothing else could.

Last year when my mom (who I didn’t meet until adulthood) came home after two months in a hospital and rehab facility, the kitchen was again one place where fear and anxiety didn’t have so much power over me. There was so much beyond our control and so many unknowns about her cancer and prognosis. Yet when it was meal time, I could do something very real, tangible, and practical.

The first night she was home, when I asked what she wanted for dinner, she said without hesitation, “half a grilled cheese and tomato soup.” The next morning for breakfast, she requested one scrambled egg, one sausage link, and half a piece of lightly buttered toast. Those simple meals were like manna and making them was my prayer when words were hollow and stale. I would sit near her bed while she ate, telling stories to keep her awake and make sure she finished every bite.

I told her about the barley soup and the no-bake cookies. She laughed. Not in a condemning way, but in a way that—like the grilled cheese and scrambled egg were healing her body—was healing my spirit. I tried to convince her to order an omelet with lettuce and hotdog. She politely declined. We had a good long laugh. And that felt like the perfect moment to admit that the pandemic zucchini brownies were an absolute fail, perhaps due to mistaking baking soda for baking powder. And she reminded me that failures don’t define us, and that some things turn out different than imagined, and that we discover important things about ourselves in the process.

A little fun after a whole lot of cooking. Thanksgiving 2021.

I’m not sure I’ll ever feel fearless in the kitchen. But this me that I am becoming is so willing to try new recipes and learn from past mistakes. I’m also eager to revisit some old recipes and spice them up a little. And use every pot and dish and spoon in the cupboards. And make a miraculous mess. And let healing aromas rise. And laugh more. And I’m certainly ready to do things for the fun of it!

What recipes do you recommend? For cooking? For baking? For living every day to its fullest?

Water-fully Yours, Rebecca & 10 Camels