Soccer mom chronicles: Food for thought

I’d like to take this moment to apologize to my neighbors for setting off the smoke alarms in my house again, not just once, but twice this past week. And thank you for not calling the fire department. I should know better than to attempt to cook, but it seems I’ll never learn my lesson.

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 The culinary arts do not come naturally to me. I never cooked or baked when I was growing up, and my mother’s cooking really only extended to roasting chickens or the occasional beef round or ham, and boiling or roasting potatoes. There were no spices or seasoning, other than salt and butter.

 I could boil spaghetti, hotdogs, eggs and vegetables and make a decent sandwich. I cooked not for enjoyment, but for survival.

 In our house now, the Food Network is on all the time. Both the girls watch it, and even my husband is a fan. I watch it out of the corner of my eye sometimes, with a mix of curiosity, fascination and frustration.

 Paula Deen, Giada DeLaurentiis, Guy Fieri, Emeril…they make it look so easy, whipping up beautiful, complex dishes, with a few dashes of this and a couple of pinches of that, and then BAM! – a culinary creation so magnificent, you almost want to lick the TV screen.

 Well, maybe not, but you know what I mean.

 And here I am, with four burners, two left hands, no culinary skills whatsoever, trying to feed four people and not cut my fingers off in the process. I will say I’ve graduated in recent years to a decent mac and cheese, a pretty good all-in-a-bag roast beef with the trimmings, and I’m particularly proud of my specialty, bacon, eggs and toast.

 But, of course, there have been setbacks. I tend to overcook or undercook. It can go either way. And there was that one incident last week where one burner caught fire, but that totally wasn’t my fault, I’m pretty sure.

 My oldest daughter has been cooking since she was 9 or 10 years old. With assistance, she’s made complete multi-course meals for us, and she loves it. Food to her is like paint to an artist. She must get her talents from my husband’s side. The Italians in our family love to cook. They live for it. Food is the center of every family gathering. It’s the tie that binds.

 My husband is also a good cook. He does most of the Thanksgiving meal, and makes perfect steak and great coffee and all the fixings for tacos, and he actually took home economics in high school. (Sorry, honey. I had to throw that in.) His best dish, in my opinion, is his mother’s apple pie. I’ve never had better.

 Even my youngest can’t wait to tie on the green apron her great aunt gave her, and crack the eggs into a bowl and mix things, and cover herself and the counter and the floor in flour or pancake mix or cookie dough. She’s enthusiastic about it. It’s a good sign.

 So it seems I’m the odd person out when it comes to the art of food. I don’t have a whole lot of patience with it, nor the interest to learn more about it. But that’s OK. As my oldest says, “You’re lucky to have all of us to cook for you, Mom.” And I am.

 As I said – for me, it’s all about survival.

 Ann Luongo is the assistant editor of special sections/real estate – south division. She likes to read, write and blog, and she loves living and working in Plymouth. You can e-mail Ann at aluongo@cnc.com.

     
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