Cooking brings out the best and worst in people.
I am no chef. I would never claim to be. I am taught not by the best culinary masters, but by my grandmothers, great-grandmothers, and most important, my mother. These are the best of teachers. And new teachers emerge with every person that samples my cooking. It is the tone of voice, the exaggeration of words, or the look of the face that exclaims loudly what this person truly thinks of my exhausting form of art. While critics come in all forms, the biggest critic (as always) is the snobbish wanna-be chef that dwells inside me. That prudish arse that can hear the tone in a family member's over-exaggerated compliment, to denying myself the luxury of watching the contortion of the face of a friend that has bitten into something I made that caused them pure bliss (mashed potatoes).
This is my attempt at salvation. To ignore that jerk living within me. To overcome my need to write by going back to my roots (I never said I was a good writer, please note that now). To one day realize that my favorite forms of art are not lost forever. And also, to learn from others who may give me the opportunity to learn through them.
I will not be picking up a famous chef's cookbook and attempting every recipe (I am highly allergic to shellfish and repulsed by avocado and cauliflower.) I will, however, essentially write to no one about my cooking disasters, triumphs, and all out temper tantrums on my 1980s speckled kitchen floor.
Last night, I decided to make fried chicken for my husband who does not exactly enjoy fried chicken. I decided this would be extra crispy. I decided to make my mother's fried chicken in a cast iron skillet instead of her much loved electric skillet approach she has used since I was a child.
I failed.
I do not fail often, but I failed.
What spawned of that failure is this blog. Let's raise a glass to many stories about food, screwing it up, and getting it just right.
-A-
