Kitchen Confession

I'm going to tell you a secret.  Before I moved out of my parents' home, I gave the kitchen a wide berth because I didn't want to cook.  I was a bit interested in baking because I loved cakes, cookies and sweets in general.  Only enough though, that I would copy recipes on Mom's notebook and badger her to bake them for me.  I did go to the kitchen despite my aversion to cooking, mostly to raid the fridge and to wash the dishes.  (I love washing dishes, not only was it the only substantial contribution I can do in the kitchen, but I also find it very therapeutic.)

Both my parents are such good cooks.  My friends remember visits at our home by what they ate at our dinner table.   A bunch of old co-workers would remember my 23rd birthday by the Kare-Kare my Mom cooked, so good that they remember the creamy peanut sauce and the pieces of meat that melted in their mouths.  Deepa loves telling our friends that if you happen to be at our house, and my Dad asks you what you want for dinner, he can and will cook it for you.  I have classmates from college who clamor for the Lengua con Champignion that they shared with us one Sunday when we worked on a group report for STS.

My parents spoiled me with food.  Which is just another way of saying that I'm very picky about the food I eat outside the house.  I remember skipping meals at work because I just found the food available in cafeterias inedible.  (I think my Dad knew this because he started packing lunches for me.  Imagine me bringing my lime green see-thru kerokerokeroppi lunch box in the office.)    How I was going to feed myself when I moved out was a grave concern for me.  My Mom and sister were seriously worried about my lack of cooking skills and was pretty sure I'll be eating fast food and canned goods all the time.

Moving out was a good thing, because I was forced to learn to cook.  And when I discovered that the apartment had a working oven, I started baking as well.  I started with simple things like frying eggs and instant soups.  A few weeks after that I asked my Dad for recipes of my favorite dishes.  The first one I tried was his recipe for Chicken Curry.  Boy, was that a disaster.  His recipe called for 3 tablespoons of curry powder.  So I obediently fished out my measuring spoons and portioned out the curry powder.  Turned out, he meant tablespoon that we used for eating.  So my first Chicken Curry, though it smelled delicious, I couldn't eat because it was way too spicy.  Good thing my roommates then enjoyed spicy food and polished off the whole pot.  I took that as a sign that what I cooked was at least edible for other people.   From that point on, I started to enjoy cooking.  I kept asking for my parents recipe and trying my best to make it as good as the dishes they cooked.

One of my favorite moments was when our friends came over for dinner.  They requested bulalo, and I did it just the way my Dad taught me.  They tucked in to that meal enthusiastically.  I felt like I won first prize.

I definitely like baking more than I like cooking.  But it still surprises me that cooking comes easy for me.  I have learned to become more flexible with measurements.  (Saying that I'm a stickler for measurement is an understatement.)  I have also learned to experiment a bit with taste.

It's definitely still a work in progress.  Until I can replicate my Dad's Pata Tim or my Mom's Kare-kare or Lengua, I'm still a long way off from the kind of cook I want to be.