There are a few things I’m not very proud of. Some really shameful things that I should probably keep to myself and not shout to the Internet. The key word being ‘probably’ since I am about to reveal two things I’m not very proud of.
First, my friends refuse to play any board games, card games, competitive games, or whatever other type of game you can think of with me. Apparently, I have the ability to ruin whatever fun anyone is having by being too competitive. I won’t get into it, but there was once an incident involving an adult temper tantrum and cards flying everywhere. You’re probably reading this and shaking your head. I don’t blame you. I’m doing the same.
The second is that I can’t cook. I am 28 years old and the only thing I can make with confidence is a salad. Come take a stroll down memory lane with me and my attempts at cooking.
When I was 15 my mom asked me to add salt to the beans she was making for dinner while she took a shower. I looked at the two containers in front of me, one with salt and the other with sugar. I grabbed one and added a pinch of salt. I did an amazing job except for one minor thing. It was sugar. My mother, not amused, gave me a lecture about ruining dinner for everyone. Since then, I’ve learned to taste things before adding it to boiling pots.
A year later at 16, I found the courage to make mashed potatoes from scratch. I peeled the potatoes and placed them in a pan to boil. Perfect. Now, my memory is a little foggy considering this was 10 years ago. I remember going to the living room to watch something Jonathan Taylor Thomas (remember him??!) related. I was so enthralled with the television that I did not realize the entire apartment was inundated in a haze. The smoke was so thick that I crawled (fire safety!) from the living room to the kitchen and turned off the stove. Coughing, I remembered my sister was in the bedroom and I crawled to save her. Lying on the floor I knocked on the door. She opened the door and I saw the phone on her left hand. She looked through the smoke and then down at me on the floor.
“I’m sorry, I’m gonna have to call you back. My sister is burning down the house.”
Yes. That happened. Let’s fast forward to my twenties. At 24, I wanted to do something nice for my roommates and decided to make them pasta. The next day one of my roommates had a doctor’s appointment. There she was informed that she had high blood pressure. She explained, “No, my roommate made some extra salty pasta last night. I’m sure it will go back to normal.”
Why am I talking about this? Growing up my mom always said “if you can’t cook no one will marry you.” The moment someone made an edible meal you’d hear “te puedes casar.” Translation: Now you can get married. I wonder if all Latina girls grew up training to be Suzie Homemaker. If you’re not, are you destined for a life of spinsterhood with your 28 cats? I certainly hope not. Given my track record I’m not even qualified to fend for myself.
Granted, I have been trying to learn how to cook a lot more lately. Not because I want a husband. But because I refuse to let the kitchen break me. If all else fails, I’ll just end up with a man who loves to cook. Those exist right? Right?!
Besides, mothers aren’t always right. I hope…