Before I get to today’s post, just a quick reminder that today is my day to blog on two of my group blogs. I’m over at Darker temptations talking about what goes on in my brain (It’s a twisted labyrinth) and I’m at gee/k/ink talking about my favorite cult classics.
Over here though, I’m talking about how I shocked the hell out of my relatives this weekend. No, it had nothing to do with the LSU Alabama game. They all know my feelings of intense dislike for LSU, so that isn’t a surprise. No, I shocked them all by voluntarily cooking something.
There was even a comment made that it only took me thirty-five years to cook which is a blatant exaggeration. I cook. When I feel like it. I’m not a gourmand. I’m happy chowing down on frozen dinners or soup or things like that. However, I had a massive envie for red beans. But not just any red beans. I wanted my sister’s red beans. It’s hard to explain, but her beans are flat-out amazing. If you’ve ever eaten at Popeye’s or Copelands, they have red beans that are flavorful and creamy. That’s how hers are, but with more kick.
I’ve guilted her into making pots of red beans for me, but I’ve only ever managed to get a bowl out of the entire pot. Yes, her family gets dibs and I get leftovers. Normally that doesn’t bother me since leftover red beans are just as good—if not better than freshly cooked red beans. I wanted a whole pot to myself, or rather, my mom and I.
So I asked my sister for her recipe, wrote it down on a sticky note and put it in my purse. Saturday I decided I’d attempt my first pot. Now, mind you, my mother is a great cook. She makes a roast beef and gravy so good it’s in constant demand. I love her cooking (if you were in any doubt, you should see the size of my hips), but she doesn’t make red beans like my sister. While I was cooking my first pot, she had a few things she wanted me to add, but I refused to divert from the exact recipe my sister had given me.
And it was gooood. Oh, not as good as my sister’s, but it was my first pot. One thing I’ve noticed about cooking is that every dish differs between cooks. My lasagna is vastly different from my mom’s, similar to my sister’s, but (in my opinion) far superior to either of theirs. My sister’s fettucine is better than mine, but her roast isn’t nearly as good as Mom’s. We use the same recipes, but the taste is different. Weird, huh?
So that’s what I did this weekend. I cooked to the complete shock of my family. Even more, I did it without anyone asking if I wanted to make something. Of course this means I’ve probably shot myself in the foot since they’ll expect me to cook more often. Damn!
How about you? Do you enjoy cooking, or do it when you have to?