Out of the long list of things I feel like you’re supposed to have learned how to do by the time you’re out of college — including organizing your bedroom, paying bills, managing time and balancing work wisely — I still have yet to learn how to cook. Sure, I can scramble an egg and boil pasta, but the extent of my culinary domesticity really reaches its pinnacle when I chop vegetables for a salad or occasionally make a standard sheet cake.
I think my type-A personality comes through to a fault when it comes to cooking — I am always double-checking the recipe, making sure I put in everything just right, constantly checking the oven to make sure it’s the right temperature and keep the food in for the exact amount of time the recipe states.
Given this attention to detail, I don’t know why I always thought cooking was something I would just sort of stumble into. I thought I would someday look around and realize that I was an adult and find myself serving ornate, handmade meals to a table full of guests I had taken care of myself.
The notion of cooking always leads me to think of my mother standing at the stove in my house back home in North Carolina, her familiar red and white apron stained from years of use and her hands animatedly working as she chatters away to me in a stream of lulling comfort.
As cliche as this may sound, my mother cooks from a sense of intuition and instinct rather than from an adherence to strict guidelines — she will occasionally have a cookbook open on the counter, but it serves as a means of general prodding in a vague direction, or even just as a resting place for her cooking utensils.
She cooks on a whim, throwing in a pinch of this, a dash of that, a splash of wine, making it up as she goes along until she stumbles upon a balance that’s just right. I, on the other hand, panic even when I’m driving 10 minutes across town without Google Maps pulled up on my phone.
There is something to be said for planning ahead and having a helpful set of instructions available to follow, but I’m always a little regretful that I have such a hard time letting go of my fixations — that it’s easier for me to stick to simplicity and the basics because branching out takes me too far out of my comfort zone.
Maybe that’s why I’ve only ever really stuck to making elementary things like fried eggs or grilled cheese — I know these things, and in that familiarity is an assurance that I won’t ruin anything or make a mistake. No matter where I am or who I’m cooking for, I can always place a piece of cheese on some buttered bread, throw it in a saucepan, and have a grilled cheese in a matter of minutes.
The bread may turn a little black or the cheese may not melt enough but it will still be a recognizable, dependable sandwich. But that multi-step quiche or the intricate lasagna recipe — how those will turn out, I do not know. They will inevitably leave me clinging to a cookbook like it’s a raft and I’m alone at sea.
Someday, whether it be 50 years from now or miraculously in just a few short months, I would love to be able to stand at a kitchen counter with ease, to create something of my own that is unique and brings comfort and satisfaction to not only others but also to myself. Maybe I have a long way to go until I can begin to even think about throwing a dinner party, but until then I will keep trying, placing aside my recipe dependency in favor of spontaneity, and slowly gathering some ingredients of my own.
Mimi’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at m.montgomery@cavalierdaily.com
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