Is consistency possible?

The beloved Big Mac I scarf down in Times Square (with no guilt, I might add) will taste virtually the same as the  one I ate in Italy (try not to judge) a few years ago. Okay – sidebar on the Big Mac in Pisa – my gastronomic tour of Italy was suspended for one meal the afternoon we visited Pisa. Turns out restrooms in Pisa left much to be desired. As a trade-off for the use of a restroom more aligned to my personal comfort zone, I was forced to indulge in the deeply satisfying, though not at all authentic cuisine I could have otherwise discovered. The reason? A super secret lavatory password could only be found on a receipt. That one time I happily traded gastronomy for convenience. 

Back to the consistency question. Is replication possible? In my kitchen, the answer is an emphatic ‘no’. Sadly, the rare happy accidents that result in something delicious (approximate frequency = a Yeti sighting), are typically (okay– never) replicated. Take my scrambled eggs. I love to make eggs. But there are so many ways to go wrong. A splash too much milk. Not enough cheddar. Too much pepper. Too little salt. And that time I started yakking to my daughters’ friends while preparing said eggs. Completely unaware the pan had overheated. Before my beautiful, cheesy eggs ever hit the pan, they were destined to become the smoky, inedible mess I unknowingly served.

Luckily for the girls that day, I am a seasoned veteran of the Burning Meals Rodeo. I’ve been thrown from this horse before. I’d bought a coffee cake to go with my eggs. After one bite of smoldering eggs, the coffee cake was attacked with a ferocity I’d only seen on a National Geographic special about wolverines. Coffee cake and polite smiles. And those pained expressions I’ve grown accustomed to that say ‘we need to hit the drive thru once we leave this house’.

Something I am consistently good at in the kitchen? A backup plan. Which usually results in a Big Mac.  

One of my secret passions is cooking shows. Watching them. Unfortunately, I am rarely ever able to replicate what I learn. To my chagrin, I am a terrible cook– but something of an expert at putting out small kitchen fires. To date, I have safely passed four major holidays (knock on wood) that I have not set something ablaze. One ‘event’, as my kids call them, was on New Year’s Eve. Did you know that steaks left on the broiler too long can ignite? Like– actually on fire? After that, we started a new family tradition of ordering Chinese food to ensure the safe welcome of a new year. Let’s just say I have an intimate knowledge of hand-held fire extinguishers. Another beloved tradition: before all family dinners, my adoring husband typically sets out antacid tablets by each place setting. I’ve never seen THAT on Top Chef.

I am the person in your office who has to sneak their baked goods into the kitchen. Because if anyone knew those cookies were mine, they would think twice before eating them. The rare times I heard rave reviews about something I baked– okay it was only that once– was when I overheard co-workers talking about my banana bread. (Confession– I make a killer banana bread. In the good way. Like you probably won’t be poisoned by it.) Co-workers were using process of elimination to guess who’d left the ‘delicious’ – I kid you not– banana bread in the kitchen. And the phrase “there’s no way it could be her” was definitely uttered when my name came up. It has been suggested by too many people to count that I could easily be a contestant on Worst Cooks in America. To them I say, bite me. In an amuse bouche sort of way. See– I learned that fancy term from a cooking show.

So, along with whatever random thoughts I post here, will be a series of my cooking disasters. Sadly, they are plentiful and ongoing. When the result is not completely scorched, I will try to post pictures of the results.

I am a firm believer in destiny.

At seven years old, I was already a book addict. A junkie. A thrice weekly visitor to our town library in the summer. I would mow down a book the way some people attack a pizza.

It was destiny that I would end up loving writing books as much as I loved reading them. It was also destiny I would become the haphazard cook I still am today. Food was something that required too much effort. While I always appreciated that effort, it wasn’t something I desired to spend a lot of time on. Fate struck on both fronts on a cold, November day the year I turned seven.

I was walking home from school– note to younger generation: kids used to do this. In my town if you lived under a mile from school, you were a ‘walker’. My home, at 9/10 of a mile, was deemed too close to ride the bus. In second grade, riding the bus was about the coolest thing I could imagine. Destiny– and the expense-conscious school committee– had already determined my fate before I ever hit McDougal Elementary. Already uncool at the age of seven. Sigh.

So, I’m walking home from school after a rainstorm, making sure to stomp through every puddle along the way. At the half mile point, I glanced down and discovered a book, submerged in a mud puddle.

My breath hitched in my throat. As I stooped to pick it up, I prayed it would be a ‘girl’ book. My introduction to Laura Ingalls Wilder was the sopping wet, dripping with mud treasure Little House in the Big Woods. No more dawdling. I rushed home with my saturated find. The cover was already beginning to dissolve. Terrified I wouldn’t be able to read the words, I spent the next hour blotting it dry before setting it on the kitchen radiator to dry out.

Each day after school I would rush home to see if it was finally dry enough to read. And each day, the rapidly expanding book would crinkle on the dry pages, but threaten to fall apart on the wet ones. Curses! After four days, I was going crazy. On my way into the kitchen one morning, I stopped to check the book again. I was supposed to be making toast.

On school days, my mother fought the epic battle to get my brothers out of bed. Consequently, I was allowed to make toast before school. I’d already failed the milk and cereal test (I’d dropped the gallon jug, spewing milk over the kitchen floor). I was seven! It was wicked heavy. To avoid mopping up spilled milk, Mom had taken a calculated risk– her reasoning probably along the lines of ‘how can she possibly eff up the toast’?

Okay, disclaimer here– I’d had some early success with toast. But on that morning . . . with Little House finally dry enough to read . . . at least the first chapter . . . I too, took a calculated risk. How much can I read while my toast is cooking? Before my mother would discover me dawdling and take Laura away.

It turns out the answer was twenty minutes. Because that morning, the toast got stuck. And started burning. And apparently, smoke began filling the house. And the smoke detector went off. When my mother ran to the kitchen to see what the hell was going on, she discovered me, head in my book at the kitchen table. Clueless to the smoke pouring from the toaster. Unalarmed by flames licking at the incinerated remnants of my cinnamon raisin toast. Oblivious to the blaring smoke alarm.

That morning two awesome things happened. I got to eat cold Poptarts on my walk to school. And I finally met Laura Ingalls. And she was way more important than toast. Destiny.