I’m tired. Lately I’ve been attempting all sorts of recipes, and the results have been mixed at best. I’m not sure. Beyond the black and white directions is a frantic girl crouching over a hot oven, peering through the not so transparent window, checking for burns. I’ve burned myself once in the process, but haven’t cut off any fingers.
I’m not sure, but I think Asian recipes are easier for me. I wonder if it’s because I subconsciously absorbed some of the things my mother told me in my teenage stupor. Mom used to pass on bits of cooking advice here and there, but I was never interested. It sounded like a foreign language to me, and she always made it sound so easy. My mind tuned out, just the way it does when people give me directions… Thank the Lord that in this day and age, we have GPS. Every week, I go to the same places, but I always use my GPS.
What was I saying? I was saying that although I didn’t watch Mom cook as in give her undivided attention, I think I must have been hovering around somehow. I saw stalks of green onions here, a chunk of ginger there. And when I cook now, the quantities are familiar somehow, even though I have never touched them before. Like distant shadows have materialized before my eyes. I always miss home when I have to cook. I miss the way Mom made it look so easy. The kitchen was always in pristine condition. Like a fairy had come in while I was gone and swept all the evidence of cooking away. Now that I live on my own, there is no fairy, save my dear husband who I allow to wash dishes for me, with some guilt.
Friday is coming, Friday is coming. The little ones will come through our door with hungry stomachs. What will I feed them? Stay tuned…