I started this year with a few resolutions. The weird thing is … I made them for other people.
I told dependants #1 & 2 they were going to learn a few more cooking skills than just how to push down the toaster and peel a banana. They were each going to take turns making one meal a week for the whole family.
The unmitigated joy I expected to leap onto their features wasn’t as evident as I’d hoped. Where was the gratitude for the huge favor I was bestowing upon them?
Dependant #1 wasn’t terribly fussed, as she already possesses baking skills that far surpass mine. This wouldn’t drain off too much energy or put her into an intellectual fog.
Dependant #2 displayed a face that suggested we’d sever his left big toe and shove it up his right nostril. I was caught off-guard, but persevered.
Saturday night came, and after watching him select his recipe from the Jamie Oliver Italy cookbook by randomly opening it to some page in the middle and tossing it close to my grocery list, I prepared for a rough hour in the kitchen.
The ingredients on the counter, the open, ready cookbook and the encouraging cheerleading routine I did ending with a flying Dutchman and piece of broken crockery did nothing to alter the sour milk disposition on the face of my new chef.
I made a few “helpful” suggestions—all greeted with a look that demanded I go take another flying leap—and then quietly skulked off to feed the sheep. At least the bouncers in the barn would be pleased to see me.
When I returned thirty minutes later, I did not smell burnt food, nor the scent of upheaval. Garlic slithered through the air, along with the chef’s announcement of dinner.
I looked to the face of Sir Sackier, who smiled serenely from the couch. I’d expected to see claw marks on his face, or a trail of blood leading back to the kitchen. Instead, I was handed a dish that held a small mound of heaven by a smug young chef.
Spaghetti alla trapanese.