I am not a cook. Or chef. I don’t like the whole reckless/mess about it. It feels like a science fair project where you don’t know the outcome. You have a hypothesis. Test it. Analyze the results. But, my results usually end in Meh. Or better yet, comments from my kids like, “Well, it’s interesting.” (Insert sympathetic look here.)
So, I decided to take a class. I figured it couldn’t hurt. And if I left with one solid dish that I could make for friends/company, it would be worth it.
The class? The Perfect Ramen Bowl. It was my initiation into a world both intense and foreign. Exhausting and time-consuming. We rolled the dough. Braised the pork belly. Pressed the noodles. Pickled the daikon. Soft-boiled the eggs. Simmered the broth. Chopped. Cleaned. Stood. Watched. Then, finally FINALLY ate.
The cooking world is a lot like the dating world. It is time-consuming and foreign. A world I don’t feel comfortable in.
I went into it thinking I could control it. Thinking I could keep things clean and organized. Follow the recipe. If this, then that.
But, like cooking, it’s messy. There are emotions involved. Expectations. I’m having a hard time trusting it.
I wonder if it’s worth it. The time. The effort. Maybe because I know too much. When you’re young, you’re not aware of the costs. The hidden dangers. But, once you’ve been burned, you’re rigid around the oven. You’re cautious with the knife. You don’t want to get hurt again. And sometimes you wonder if it’s safer to stay out of the kitchen altogether.
Eloise off-handedly said, “Maybe you’ll be single the rest of your life. And have nine cats!” Who knows? Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Then again, there was nothing compared to the ramen bowl. It was pretty perfect. Sure, it took time. A lot of time. Attention. Work.
But it was worth it. (I think.)