My expectations and my realities do not always match up. I have found this particularly true when it comes to cooking.
Like many engaged women, I had high expectations for myself as a housewife. I knew that I would be teaching when we were married, but somehow my job never hindered the visions that I had of my husband coming home to a happy wife, a clean house, and hot, delicious dinner.
Ten years ago, on the eve of saying my āI doās,ā I panicked. I donāt know why it had not occurred to me until that moment, but I suddenly realized I didnāt know how to cook. I had never cooked a meal in my life. And when I say neverā¦.I mean never. I tried making a cake in college (using a boxed mix) and failed miserably. How does one mess up a recipe that calls for merely eggs and water?
So, in a state of desperation, I ran up the stairs into my parentās bedroom. I told my parents to wake up ā it was urgent. They quickly sat up. As soon as my father realized I wasnāt in their room wanting to call of the wedding, he went back to sleep. My mom assured me, half asleep, that I would figure it out.
I went back downstairs with a renewed energy. Yes, I could do it, I told myself. How hard can it be to cook a meal? My husband had been a bachelor for ten years before we were married, so I knew that was in my favor. My cooking would be compared to Raman noodles and cold cereal. So, I fell asleep convincing myself that there was no need to lower my expectations.
Shortly after the honeymoon, however, reality hit. And somehow, reality and my cooking expectations were so far off that I didnāt just have to lower my expectationsā¦.I had to bury them.
The first night in our house as husband and wife, I called my grandmother. She was a good cook, and I figured she could tell me how to make a meal. After doing some long distance investigation, she realized that the ingredients I was working with were very limited. So, she patiently walked through the only recipe she could think of using the ingredients that I had. Dinner for our first night together was going to be stuffed baked potato.
I donāt blame my grandmother for my failure. Looking back, how could she have known that I didnāt know how long to cook a potato?
I baked the potato for fifteen minutes in the oven (which was preheating for ten of those fifteen minutes). Once they were ādone,ā I put them to the side and began making a white sauce that would eventually top my baked potatoes. The sauce only had three ingredients: milk, butter, and flour.
Instead of adding two cups of milk to two tablespoons of flour, I added two cups of flour to two tablespoons of milk (if you havenāt done this before, this is a great way to make paste).
We sat down at the table. I āplatedā the meal for my husband and put the following in front of him: a baked potato, hard as a rock, topped with thick, white paste.
Because we were newly married, there was absolutely no honesty when it came to my cooking. āItās good, honey, but I had a late lunch. Can I save mine until tomorrow?ā
I wouldnāt admit the failure, even to myself, as I stuffed every last bite of the pasty, raw potato into my mouth. And then I got sick.
My expectations were to blow him away with amazing meals night after night. Reality, however, was that my husband got Raman Noodles. And so that he wouldnāt become sick of the noodles, I added in the occasional frozen TV dinner.
When I married Chris, I knew I was marrying a pastor. He was already involved in youth ministry and by the time we were married, he was moving into an associate pastor role in the church we were attending. So, I knew that unless the Lord directed him otherwise, a pastorās wife I would be.
Growing up in a pastorās family, I saw my mom take meals to Sunday lunches, bring meals to people who were sick, and hosted and fed big groups of people. So, I knew that in many ways, cooking coincided with church business. It was just a fact.
I had high expectations in this area: instead of bringing Jell-O to the Sunday lunches, I would bring the casserole that everyone would rave about.
Within the first month of our marriage, I worked up the courage to have a friend over for dinner. Since it was my first time hosting dinner in our house, I wanted to make something incredible. The problem was that my repertoire was very small. It basically included microwaving frozen meals and boiling noodles.
I remember very clearly walking nervously through the grocery aisles trying to decide what to fix. Then I found something that seemed remarkable at the time ā a bag of bean soup mix. It read on the front ājust like home-made.ā
For me, it was perfect. I thought through the possible ways that I could mess it up and could come up with none. So, I purchased the soup mix. And that was it. I hadnāt considered sides, desserts, or drinks. No, all I went home with was the bean soup mix. At the time I thought my plan was brilliant.
That night, after welcoming in our company and seating them at our table, I began pouring the soup into individual bowls. It didnāt occur to me until that moment that I had nothing else to serve with it. I didnāt let this bother me, however, because the soup looked good and it smelled delicious. Unfortunately, I had not tasted my bean soup.
For the last ten years, the mistakes Iāve made while preparing food have varied, but there is one that stays consistent ā I do not taste my food while making it. My husband is baffled by this fact. To me, itās clear as can be: if I taste my food, and it doesnāt taste good, what then? What would I do? I wouldnāt know what to add or subtract. Instead, I allow my victims the first bite. If they fall dead, well then, weāll order pizza.
When all the bowls were served, Chris prayed, and we dug in. I waited for everyone else to try it first. I waited so that I could smile without food in my mouth when I was praised for the meal that sat before them. I looked at Chris as he blew and ate. I could literally hear the crunch. Almost simultaneously, then, I heard crunching all around me.
Considering that perhaps I was just hearing things, I took a bite myself. Sure enough, the beans were not beans, but nuts. I had not soaked the beans for the bean soup (which I later found clearly stated on the back of the mix), and so we sat around the table crunching through our ānutā soup.
My husband, who was just dying to make fun of my ānut soup,ā sat as politely as possible. I was horrified. I thought about inviting our company to go get Chinese, but, just like the baked potato incident, my pride got in the way. My husband decided, for the sake of his future existence, to say nothing as I sat and crunched away as if all was right in the world.
But, of course, he couldnāt completely hold back. Chris brought me his half eaten bowl and whispered in my ear, āCan I have moreā¦..of the broth?ā
My expectation was that I would be āthatā cook. I would be the cook that all the church ladies talked about; the one that gets seventeen slots in the church cookbook. Yes, that was my expectation. Realty, however, was making reservations at restaurants for friends we were getting to know.
My youngest turned two, two weeks ago. So, I made a cake. Iāve done this before, and itās turned out quite well. Feeling adventurous (and not having any major food problems in the recent future), I decided to try a new recipe.
The cake looked lovely. When I set it in front of my two year old, she said very simply, āyuck.ā I took it from her, chastising her ingratitude at the time that mommy put into making her a cake.
And then my oldest daughter chimed in, āMom, this is totally gross.ā I still didnāt believe that my cake had failed. I watched my son take a bite. He stopped, took one more lick of the icing, and then threw it in the trash. My mother, the only one who couldnāt tell me the plain, hard truth, took a bite and said, āOh, itās so good. Iām just going to leave it on the counter because Iām so full from dinner.ā
After ten years of marriage, there is no more dishonesty when it comes to cooking. Granted, my husband will, at times, soften the comments if needed, but on this occasion it was not necessary. He told me the way it was: āItās bad, honey. You definitely left out something.ā I looked at the cake and considered for just a moment that it wasnāt as bad as they all made it out to be. I took a big bite. There was no holding onto my pride this time. For the sake of my children’s health, the whole cake went in the trash.
My husband will admit, quite freely, that my cooking has improved remarkably over the years. Iāve even pleasantly surprised some folks with some down-right good cooking. But what Iāve had to do is adjust my expectations. When newly married, I expected that my family would eat (and love) every meal. But now that Iāve adjusted those expectations, I have embraced reality. And reality is that not every meal I make is going to get eaten. In fact, not every meal I make is edible. Yes, I can say with certainty that I cook most days, my family eats it some days, and usually no one gets sick.
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I laughed out loud when you were talking about the crunching. So funny!
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I love you Katie! I know, don't cast that first "nut" in my direction but I WAS just thinking about you and your cooking the other day. I remember right before yall were married and you looked at me with the panicked look and said, "Do you think I can do it? Am I going to be able to cook?" To which I replied (with Stephanie there to remind us of the cake incident at Covenant), "Sure! C'mon, what's hard about cooking? You'll be just fine!"
I'd say that for starting out where you did about ten years ago, you are doing amazing! And even though I CAN cook, I hate it. I am glad Darren loves it! (former bachelors are happier when they can at least EAT!) Thanks once again for the laugh~ very much needed and appreciated!
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Katie –I stumbled across your blog a few weeks ago have have to tell you that I love reading what you write. Seriously –I have tears in my eyes as I try to not laugh too loudly and wake the kids. I especially like the part about Lily telling you that the cake was yuck. Thanks for the little glimpse into your life.