I have historically been a horrible, horrible cook. No, seriously. Have you ever managed to serve burned, yet still raw chicken? I have. My husband could regale you with multiple dinners that ended in a quick trip to McDonalds, because whatever the mess was that I made on the stove was not salvageable by any means. I could manage spaghetti or one of those boxed pasta dishes, but anything too far outside of that realm was absolutely beyond my control. Mike suffered in silence, manfully eating what he could and offering to cook as much as he could get away with.
Then we had kids, and for a while we fell into a routine of just cramming whatever was quick into our stomachs. It wasn’t the most nutritious plan, given that most of it was processed and full of fats; it may have tasted good, but that’s no indication of health benefits (see: McDonald’s apple pies). I decided that I better start fixing this food thing pronto, because I don’t want my kids to grow up with the unhealthy association that I have with food. I don’t want them to abhor vegetables, long for cakes and cookies, and to completely ignore what they were putting in their bodies in favor of convenience and cravings. So I started cooking. Lo and behold, after a few predictable disasters, I managed to start making things that a) weren’t burned, b) seasoned properly with something besides an overload of salt, and c) were actually healthy. I felt good about putting these dishes on the table and serving my family.
Of course, that doesn’t mean that the idyllic Donna Reed fantasy I had played out: me, perfectly coiffed and manicured, descending upon the kitchen table like an angel of pot roast amid the wide eyed anticipation of my hungry and appreciative family. I’d lovingly spoon out steamed asparagus, cut into perfect bite sized pieces for the children who would immediately grasp the intensity of my love for them by just gazing at their bountiful, healthy plates of food. While eating, everyone gazes at me adoringly, praising my prowess in the kitchen while I assure them that it wasn’t any effort at all. Instead, it goes more like this: the kids invade the house, demanding to know what is for dinner. I’m standing at the stove cooking whatever it is that I have planned, and before I can get the words out to explain what I’m making, one (or both) of the kids immediately yells about how DISGUSTING that is, regardless of whether they have actually ever eaten it or not. I start making plates for them, chopping vegetables and meat with the understanding that my oldest will fight the entire meal because there is a hint of green vegetable on his plate, and my youngest will be doing the same, except she has a deep seated resentment of meat. I call everyone to the table, having to actually retrieve my husband from his office where he hides when he gets home – apparently, being in front of a computer all day at work doesn’t provide him with enough time in front of a computer – and we eventually get everyone to the table and get settled down to the fine art of convincing each of the kids to at least TRY everything on their plates before I finally give up and remind them that THIS is dinner, and you won’t get anything else if you don’t eat it. This threat doesn’t affect them at all, since they both leave a majority of their dinners behind.
With that in mind, knowing that they aren’t going to like anything that I make anyway, I’ve started trying to cook things that interest me as opposed to trying to please the hateration that lives in my house. For Mother’s Day, Mike got me an Indian slow cooker cookbook that looks pretty promising, and from that I picked out Chicken Tikka Masala as my first attempt. I think, in hindsight, I should have started out smaller, preferably something that did not have 29 ingredients.
I’m not kidding. 29 ingredients including cardamom pods that required a mortar and pestle to crush. Not being an alchemist, I used the backside of a spoon and my cutting board.
It was…okay. Not spectacular, not earth shattering, but probably not something I’d make again – we have an awesome Indian food place nearby that makes an amazing Tikka Masala, so I think I’ll let them keep doing that while I try something a little less complex. Maybe the lentils (I love lentils!) or one of the vegetable dishes. But I don’t count this as a failure by any stretch of the imagination, because when I look at the effort I put forth compared to what I was doing last year, this is such a vast improvement that even something that turned out “meh” is a small victory.
And, I would like to point out, not one piece of that chicken was raw.
