Learning to Cook

The four stepchildren sat around the dining table looking like hungry baby birds, their beaks open, waiting on mama to come bring the evening meal, while I stood in the kitchen wondering if I could brown hamburger meat to put into the Hamburger Helper I was going to serve.

My first step into stepparenting was requiring me to cook for these kids ranging in ages from 12 to 17. This was new behavior for a single woman who lived on bologna and cheese sandwiches with cottage cheese and a pineapple slice on the side.

I had no idea if they would like this boxed meal, but a friend assured me browning meat was easy and they wouldn’t complain.

So for the next three weeks, I served five varieties of H.H to this crowd of what I now considered vultures, rotating flavors between chicken, tuna and beef bits. This diet lasted until the 13-year-old boy, who had only grunted in response to inquiries I had made of him, asked, in his angry, never before heard, voice, “Is this what we are going to eat every night?”

I quickly answered ‘probably’with an awakening I couldn’t stand Hamburger Helpers and if I had to eat another one I would throw up. Which meant, I had to now learn to cook something else.

The learning curve was like the Big Sur coastline: rocky, dangerous, uneven, and often stormy. But, what’s a caring and obvious ignorant stepmother to do when the starving horde descends around the dining room table eager to inhale gallons of milk, pounds of meat, and tons of whatever else is in the cabinet?

My first trip to the grocery store I spent $21.15 foolishly expecting that to last us for a week. The next morning I discovered a cast of Biblical-like locusts had infiltrated the kitchen and eaten everything previously purchased. This was a rude awakening from my dream of a life outside the kitchen.

I learned to buy cases of tomato sauce, green beans, corn, eggs, half a beef, and cookbooks. No soft drinks, nor potato chips, were allowed in the grocery basket, but milk and tea leaves were acceptable. At least the tea leaves were cheap.

Gradually, I scaled the formidable seashore wall and made my way to a peaceful cove of chili, spaghetti sauce, chicken soup, and even a salad periodically. I learned how to bake potatoes, fry mushrooms and onions, and even prepare a roast with all the veggies included.

Eleven years later, I had mastered meal preparations for the herd of what I called the animals who came to feast at our table. This group included newly acquired husbands, boyfriends, girlfriends, step grandchildren, friends, neighbors, and strangers who seemed to go unnoticed.

I had learned I’m not a good nor an interested cook, and since the kids had all moved out, I needed to also. The marriage ended, as did my cooking, and I’m now back to bolonga and cheese sandwiches with a bit of yogurt with fruit. If my stove works it would be news to me. And my life is filled with lovely memories of that strange person learning and forgetting how to cook.