Over graduation, I was having a conversation with my aunt and a friend’s mother when the topic of my blog came up. Attempting to explain the subject matter (brevity is not one of my fortes), I told them of my ineptitude in the kitchen. My friend’s mother looked baffled – how did I not know how to cook? Did I never help my mother in the kitchen or make any meals as a child?

Now, I’m not going to claim that I was the golden child who always came to my mother’s aid in the kitchen. But I don’t think I was by any means the spoiled brat who expected her mother to do everything for her – such behavior would not have flown in my parent’s household. I think it was more that I actively rejected it. I did what was necessary to help – peeled potatoes, chopped onion, washed the dishes – and then quickly pushed anything I had learned in the process out of my mind. Men weren’t expected to know everything about a kitchen so why should I?

The ironic part is that all of the men in my life – Andrew, my dad, my brothers – are excellent cooks, while I’m the one who can barely make eggs for breakfast. Good thing I can now cook chicken fajitas…

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