Kitchen Deficiency

I thought I was a good cook.

I spent years cooking for my growing sons and all that time, I felt confident that I could make spaghetti and meatballs with the best of moms.

However, now that my boys are grown, I can, in hindsight, admit that my kitchen skills are deficient.

My recent attempt to bake banana bread prompted this episode of culinary self-reflection. It was supposed to be banana nut bread, but if you forget to add baking soda, like I did, you get banana nut flatbread, as the photo shows.

The more I thought about those days when my kids were young, the more I remembered what a crazy, busy schedule we had. With work, school, sports, and homework, my biggest priority was to produce healthy meals for my kids with speed and efficiency. I took pride in putting chicken, potatoes and broccoli on the table in 35 minutes flat, but heaven forbid if I ever spiced it up with anything more than salt, pepper and garlic.

That’s why it surprises me that I don’t remember my sons ever complaining. They ate heartily and with appreciation as if they considered my mac n’ cheese the pinnacle of fine dining.

My son, John, didn’t even complain when I served shrimp with cocktail sauce. He took one bite, said, “Mom this tastes good,” then 60 seconds later, his whole head swelled up like a basketball and I had to call an ambulance to take him to the emergency room. He looked like a prizefighter for a few days as he recovered from this severe allergic reaction and the doctor told him he can never eat shrimp or seafood for the rest of his life. Still, he still never complained.

My boys definitely should have protested when I baked a chocolate birthday cake from scratch, and forgot to add sugar.

In case you’re wondering, you can eat banana bread without baking soda. If I had only added some chopped candied fruit, it would have been just like a holiday fruitcake that is so dense, it causes your digestion to screech to a halt as your gastric juices bombard that thick brick in the pit of your stomach.

But you can’t eat chocolate cake without sugar. It tastes like dirt, which is especially shocking when you are expecting a bite of sweet, moist chocolatey goodness and get a mouthful of dark, bitter blah. I didn’t blame my boys for spitting it out.

(Note to self: I’ve really got to pay closer attention to key ingredients.)

I don’t remember whose birthday it was, but despite having an inedible cake, both boys used their fingers to scrape the chocolate frosting off the cake, which was enough to salvage the occasion.

So right now, I’m feeling grateful to my boys who ate the burnt crust when I tried to make my own pizza dough, and many casseroles that were still cold in the center, and the half-baked brownies that taught me what it means to bake until the toothpick comes out clean.

Boys, I want to make it up to you.

Although I don’t have any grandchildren yet, someday, I hope I do. And if you bring your little ones to visit me, I will give them cookies.

And I promise they will be store bought.

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