Making A Thing

I’m not a good cook. 

I’m not awful, I guess. But I produce more  anxiety and self-deprecation and mess than delicious food. It’s something I’d like to change. And like writing or chair pose or plumbing, I suspect it’s something one needs a few tries at to get better. (Although chair pose and clogged toilets remain my arch enemies.)

But, I’m determined to keep saying yes. To keep trying. 

So, making the food tonight. Yes. And if I burn or melt or otherwise desiccate the whole lot in my attempt, well I was probably going to order pizza anyway. 

This won’t be Pinterest pretty. Won’t have flowery, detailed instructions. I’m making it all up. Without filters. So here goes. 


I cut up whatever vegetables I had in my drawer. The ones on top of the many candy bars. And not the slimy, turned ones that I threw out. The carrots and red potatoes and sweet potatoes and green peppers that seemed still edible. 


In water. Boil. How long? Don’t know. However long it takes to help with spelling homework. 

Take steak out of freezer and thaw. I know I lost most right there. The vegetarians and the good meat snobs. Sorry. This is real grown up life. Work and  kid’s guitar lessons and laundry. I’m not dealing with Giant Eagle tonight.  If it helps, I’m sure it was a really cheap cut, that I’m sure was only mediocre to middling at the start. 


Speaking of cut, do that. Don’t know from bias or grain. Just cut. 

Put salt and pepper on it. Then more. Then yank the produce out of the water and throw their asses on a tray too. Same salt and pepper and maybe oil on them too. Who knows?


Another pause because I forgot to sign some paper for school and then did that but then put it in the wrong folder. 

Heat the oven. Crank that bitch. How high? (he, he, high, weed joke.) But seriously. No idea. Just turn it up. Far as she goes.  Then shove it all in. (he, he, sex joke that I won’t specify because this about my food not my kinks.)

Before. 


Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. Don’t know. I had ‘Call the Midwife’  on my Kindle and then needed to come up with rhyming words for march and restore (starch and before oh my gods these poor women without birth control pills!) 

Then I had to stare at the pretty I had wrought. And play at artsy. 


After. 

Trays got twisted. Script Supervisor and continuity are not in my skill set. 

Plate that bitch. 


Obviously I are three times that during various kitchen passes and walk throughs. 

Didn’t turn out half bad. 

So, I did make the thing. We finished homework and ate the thing I made. 

Yes. A good yes for today. 

Even if it’s probably yes to pizza tomorrow. 

Lasagna

Some days, the lasagna is the victory. 

Today, I’ll take that. All of it. 

It’s not gluten-free or vegetarian. The cheese is real and brimming with dairy. There is oil and wine and fats of all flavors in that thing. 

And I made it. 

No self-effacing. It’s gorgeous and glorious and the smell is almost as good as the feel of the fork sinking into the pasta. Yes. I’m writing soft-core food porn now. Just wait until I get to the garlic orgasm. 

Look. I don’t do perfectly proportioned meals, overflowing with organic vegetables. My proteins aren’t lean. We won’t broach the offensive amounts of sugar in my kitchen. 

Some days I regret that and want to do better. 

But not today. 

Because my gods, does the divine, oozy, succulence in that picture taste as good as it looks. An Italian mother would think I’m good enough for her son. (That and my baby-making hips.)  That’s how good I did with this thing. 

It’s awkward for me to say out loud when I do well. It’s painful and awkward and I only do it when…well, I don’t. But I’m trying. 

No. I know.  It’s not a win/lose. It’s not a succeed/fail. It’s a journey and a trying and…

Who am I kidding-

Some days I suck without limits. 

But today-

Today I made lasagna. 

I did something really well and I’m saying it. 

So I win.