The Chronicles Of Cookery

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young lady in a Hispanic family must be in possession of decent cooking skills. However little known the feelings or views of such a young lady may be on her first entering the kitchen, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of her surrounding family that it is considered the rightful duty of each and every of the family's daughters.Growing up in a Spanish family all the women in my life had mad cooking skills, my mother, grandmother, various aunts and cousins, and my older sister; I am the exception to this. Try as I might (though my family chooses to believe I'm not actually trying) every time I go in the kitchen it's as if the contents of Pandora's box have been dumped on my head and everything that could possibly go wrong with whatever I'm cooking does. When I was small I had a dream, that dream was to be a pastry chef when I grew up and have my own bakery. I was truly and properly devoted to this dream, I asked for a chef's hat and cook books for my birthday and Christmas, I watched cooking shows devotedly with my mother every afternoon, and when Pixar released a certain movie about a tiny chef I watched it so many times I can now quote every line...But to quote Les Mis, "There are dreams that cannot be". Despite the fact that I was entirely gun-ho on cooking and baking the only times I really did either of those things was when I was at my mother's side doing small jobs like measuring cups of flour or putting the mixer on. Tragically as the years passed my skills didn't blossom into something worthy of my own food network show, instead I ended up as the black sheep of the family. All those years of trudging around the kitchen in an apron that was too big and a Mickey Mouse chef's hat carefully watching the skilled women in my life had gone to waste. As I write this my mother is under the weather so I've been entrusted with the duties of the household and keeping her and myself fed...and when I tell you I suck at it I'm not just putting myself down. With illness bearing down on her appetite I figured all mum would want to eat would be toast (which any idiot can make) and scrambled eggs which seems to be the one thing I'm actually quite good at, and then today she asked for egg salad...Now you must understand one thing, I hate egg salad, I've never eaten it if I can help it and I've certainly never made it. But still I thought, much like my mother probably did, that even I couldn't screw up something so simple. We were terribly wrong. Perhaps there was too much mayo, or maybe too little salt and pepper? I wouldn't know, reader, because I hate the smelly stuff and didn't eat it. I thought it looked fine, I gave a little nod to myself to acknowledge a job well done and whisked the sandwich off to my very hungry patient, all seemed to be going well...And then she took the first bite and her face crinkled a bit and my heart sank to my toes. I apologized profusely before she was even done chewing, stating how it was my first crack at egg salad and I could always add something to it if she wanted. My mother, good woman that she is, assured me that it was perfectly fine and kept on eating. I left her bedside downcast, knowing that she was trying to spare my feelings and that is was in fact not fine at all. Today was a battle lost but I shall try to learn all I can in the ways of cookery and may yet win the war. But on the road to victory I see many burnt pans, smoking stoves and mangled main courses. Until next time, guys. Much love, Chef Gabby.