My Mumma didn’t raise no housewife.

I am the worst cook I know. The mere association of ‘me’ and ‘cook’ is downright laughable. I’m the only person I know that takes 30 minutes to make 2 minute noodles, and even then I still manage to burn the water. Over the years I’ve had so many ‘incidents’ in the kitchen that I’m no longer allowed to be in it unless supervised by a ‘real’ adult. I really wish I was kidding.
I’m so culinarily challenged that I literally don’t know how to turn the oven on. We recently bought a new house, and upon inspection the question was asked, “Is the oven gas or electric?” to which I thought, why does it even matter? It’ll just be used as a storage unit anyway. The only purpose a microwave serves is for me to put metal in it and pretend I’m watching New Years fireworks.
Needless to say, I’m not allowed to use the microwave unsupervised anymore. Again, I really wish I was kidding.

Most of my friends are aware of my kitchen disabilities so take pity on me and invite me over for dinner. In such instances I’m forced to ask “is there anything I can do to help?” After all, Mumma didn’t raise no impolite hillbilly neither.
I live in fear, of people actually taking me up on my offer to help. I was once asked to help slice fruit for dessert. The pressure of being in the kitchen got to me and the request resulted in a lot of blood and a trip to emergency.

What’s worse is that even if I wanted to cook I wouldn’t know where to start. My mum has learnt the hard way that I’m a liability in the kitchen and is too frightened to teach me. I own no recipe books (unless you count my alphabetized takeaway menu folder) and even if I printed a recipe off the internet I have full confidence that it will result in the house burning down. After all, I’m the girl who got kicked out of home-ec classes for confusing the salt and sugar, I use the smoke alarm as my timer,  I make cheese on toast by putting the cheese on the bread then turning the toaster on its side and the one attempt I made at impressing my friends by making jelly, I couldn’t find the measuring cup so guesstimated and then subsequently forced my friends to drink their jelly with a straw.
Yep, if fine dining was a plane, my kitchen would be the Bermuda Triangle.

I rationalize my inability to cook by telling myself I wasn’t raised to be a housewife.
When people look for someone to spend the rest of their lives with, they normally seek someone who makes them laugh, is intelligent and who they have things in common with. But no, not me. The only thing I look for is someone who can make up for my shortcomings and is able to cook (or at least who can enter a kitchen without causing death and destruction).

They say too many cooks spoil the broth. But it’s only takes one Tijana to turn Cup-A-Soup into a Cup-A-Fire! My idea of a well balanced diet includes ensuring the take-away folder has both Thai and Italian menus and the only way I’ll get my 3 serves of fruit a day is if my mixed lolly bag has bananas, raspberries and strawberry creams.

Given that food is actually an important part of a balanced diet, I should probably look into enrolling myself into a few cooking classes. But for now, living under the constant threat of food poisoning will have to suffice.

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3 thoughts on “My Mumma didn’t raise no housewife.

  1. Pingback: What I’d rather be doing right now: | ilovethedangerindistance.

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