Anyone Can Cook

I had everything for a sandwich out on the counter when I decided I wasn't in the mood for salami. I decided to prove to myself (and the world) that I can cook!

"Anyone can cook," as Gusteau in Ratatouille says.

I have never met Gusteau, as evidenced by his statement that anyone can cook. I think I fall in the category Remy argues, "Anyone can cook but that doesn't mean anyone should!"

I decided on a very basic meal and assembled my ingredients. I was in luck! We had everything.

So I began, step by step to assemble my--never mind, I'm not telling you what I didn't actually make.

It's not that I didn't want lunch. It's not that I didn't how to make lunch. It's not that I couldn't make lunch. No, it was the thoughts and questions rolling around in the back of my head.

How do I know when it's done? When it looks like you'll eat it. But what if it isn't done all of the way? What if I get food poisoning and die? It's not working. This isn't what it's supposed to look like. I did something wrong. This isn't safe.

So I changed what I was making. Bonus points for thinking on my feet, right? Yet the questions and doubts continued.

This doesn't look right. Will I smell it if it starts burning? What if I burn the house down? Where is the fire extinguisher? Is it supposed to do that? I don't think this is right. I'm not eating this.

I gave up. I turned off the stove, poured my epic fail into a garbage bag, and took it out to the street. Salami sandwich it would be.

You better learn to like P, B, and J because that's what you'll be eating for the rest of your life. Your kids will be the one with the mom who can't cook. You better make a lot of money so you can afford to eat out regularly because PBJ and frozen lasagnas are going to get old fast. Gusteau lied.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to smack something in frustration or cry in embarrassment. Maybe both.

The kitchen was littered with the dishes from my lunch fail and I sat at the table pouting, salami sandwich on my plate.

Katie.
Not in the mood, God.
Why are you listening to the enemies lies?
You mean the truths?
They're lies. You can cook.
Do you not smell that? Were you not watching me make a mess?
You are a mess. But a beautiful mess. Do you want to know what you did wrong?
I know what I did wrong: I tried to cook.
You didn't wait. Everything you did--except switching "recipes" in the middle--was correct. But you didn't wait. Cooking takes time. Learning to cook takes time.
If You're going to tell me it's like fishing, I don't want to hear it. Not a fisherman, fisherwoman nor a fisher-of-women. Sorry.
Why are you swallowing the lies? Toss them out like you did that half-cooked meal. Be done with them. All of them.

The Signs of Womanhood

I have a huge Wal-mart list, but I haven't had time to go.  Instead, I made a quick stop at the grocery store for the vitals.  Three two-gallon jugs of water, a 12 oz bag of milk chocolate chips, and a bottle of Tylenol.

Since you can't go out in public here without seeing someone you know, I ran into one of my professors.

"That makes so much sense," she said after a quick glance at the items in my hand.  "On so many levels."

Busted.

I laughed it off.  There was no way she'd believe the water was a weekly purchase, the Tylenol because I finally ran out of the nasty store-brand pain reliever I bought in the spring, and the chocolate chips were not for eating.

Well, they were.  Sort of.

Last week Kristin posted a microwave recipe for peanut butter cups, and I wanted to try them.  So, I did the logical thing.  I printed the recipe and glued it in my Writer's Notebook, then saved a digital copy just in case.  It was in that moment that I realized I am officially one step closer to adulthood.

I don't cook.  Ok, I can make a coveted cheese dip.  That's about it.  Until now.  Now I can make peanut butter cups, too.  What more does a person need, right?

<>< Katie

PS: If you're going to try the recipe, don't cut the muffin papers in half (at least I didn't) and let them thaw between the second cooling and eating or be prepared for a little someone (aka my roommate Jennifer) to make a mess of peanut butter.

Magnificent Microwave Meals

This morning, I hadn't even put in my contacts yet when my roommates started sassing me. "Have you blogged yet today?" "PLEASE blog about last night!" "Katie, you're such a slacker blogger!" "Tell your eleven readers what we did last night!" They just like to see their times in print. Sorry to disappoint, ladies, but I am not going to explain how we managed to "seat" eight people on the futon... in three different positions. Enjoy the photo saga on facebook instead because words cannot do justice to the laughter that filled our apartment around 1am this morning.

Since school was closed today no one really wanted to eat in the cafeteria. We knew we'd be on day number four of whatever they could scrounge up from the back room and the pickings from that back room were getting grim on day two! Breakfast/lunch is typically one meal for us and can be made in the apartment thanks to our random supply of items.

Dinner, on the other hand, is more of a challenge since we don't have an oven/stove. Gourmet microwave meals only go so far. Either way, we needed to face the "icy roads" on the mile and a half trek to the grocery store. The problem is that none of the girls in our apartment who (a) drive and (b) have a car felt comfortable making this treacherous voyage. They called upstairs for one of the guys to take us to the store. It was around that time that I announced I wasn't going; Elizabeth felt my participation in this escapade was not optional.

Then why are we finding a driver? Even though I don't enjoy driving, I was well over-qualified for this dangerous excursion on dry roads.

"Get in the car, girls," I said and was expecting a repeat from the other night. Lucky for me, the only useless question was, "Which car is yours?" Clearly the one with out-of-state plates and no snow on it because I'm the only one with a real snowscraper. Pray for me in this foreign country...

Our spontaneous dinner plans turned from microwave lasagna to raw hamburgers in .7 seconds. Our apartment is going to smell like grille forever! However, I accept that because we had a wonderful time making hamburgers, chip dip, macaroni and cheese, and cookies all without a stove! That takes skill.

"This tastes like a homecooked meal," someone remarked.
Correction: This IS a homecooked meal.

Sitting on the floor with real plates on our laps, we thanked God and each other for this meal. Every single one of us was vital in the creation of our dinner. I braved the weather and drove to the store. Adam and Allyson cooked burgers. Nikki found us a George Forman (shhh! Don't tell!). Ryan provided real plates. Amy found the ketchup, and Elizabeth used her mad skills to make Mac & Cheese. No one of us could take the credit for our meal. It was a group effort.

Just like every one of us had a unique role in tonight's dinner, we each have our unique part in the Body of Christ. In Romans 12, Paul outlines this idea when he writes,

3 For by the grace given me I say to every one of you: Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment, in accordance with the measure of faith God has given you. 4 Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, 5 so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. 6 We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. If a man's gift is prophesying, let him use it in proportion to his faith. 7 If it is serving, let him serve; if it is teaching, let him teach; 8 if it is encouraging, let him encourage; if it is contributing to the needs of others, let him give generously; if it is leadership, let him govern diligently; if it is showing mercy, let him do it cheerfully.

Well done, ladies! (And gentlemen).

<>< Katie
PS: It has also come to my attention that Mr. Kassakatis has been spewing cruel words regarding my blog. This harsh criticism will not be taken personally for I realize Mr. Kassakatis is merely jealous that he cannot communicate as well as I do. I am truly sorry. (not so much).