I was instructed to “bust out” items they assume everyone has in their kitchen — a large pan, two baking sheets, salt and pepper, paper towels, and aluminum foil. The first step was to preheat the oven to 425° and then wash and dry all the produce. No big deal. I could do that.
Next, I read I should dice the enclosed sweet potato into quarter-inch cubes. Huh?! Do you have any idea how hard a sweet potato is? Do you know how small a quarter-inch cube is? I dug out the sharpest, most lethal knife in my drawer and set to it. In retrospect, I should have nuked that potato in the microwave for a couple of minutes to soften it first (or, actually, simply cut it in half), but I was faithfully following the instructions to the letter. I tried valiantly to saw and slice. I swear that task would have challenged even someone with the knife skills of Lorena Bobbitt. In the time it took to dice that potato, the amaryllis plant I had received for Christmas grew at least two inches. (Note: They should have added Band-Aids to the “bust out” list. Yes, of course I cut my finger.)
I then lined the two baking sheets with aluminum foil, put the chicken legs on one and the ridiculously-diced potato on the other and put both into the oven — which, incidentally, had long-ago reached its preheated temperature of 425° and had since been sitting empty, happily guzzling expensive gas. (Note to self: If and when I ever bake anything again, do NOT preheat the oven until ready to use it.)
The next step called for charring the included corn kernels in a pan with some of the spices. But first I had to liberate said corn from a plastic-coated box which had been glued together with an impenetrable industrial-strength adhesive strong enough to attach the wings onto a 747. Opening that box was almost as challenging as dicing the sweet potato. I was supposed to stir the corn frequently and cover the pan if it started to pop. Of course, every time I uncovered the pan to stir, several kernels popped and escaped to the kitchen floor. When what was left of the corn in the pan was a bit charred, I added the other veggies — a poblano and tomato (after coring, deseeding and dicing) and scallion (chopped, of course) and some cilantro (also chopped) with another drizzle of olive oil and a liberal sprinkling of salt and pepper.
Eventually all the veggies were charred (which was supposed to be a good thing) and the chicken and potatoes were cooked. Finally! The dinner was ready to be plated — but I was so exhausted and traumatized that I no longer was hungry. And the sight of my spattered kitchen floor, stove and oven, and my sink filled with dirty cutting boards, knives, and greasy baking sheets and pan did nothing to enhance my appetite.
I was very disappointed — not just in myself, but especially for my wonderful family who had such high hopes that their thoughtful gift would expand my culinary horizons and nourish the rest of my golden years. Instead, I have to face the ugly truth once and for all: I am not a cook. I never will be.
As the old joke says, I’m afraid that my favorite thing to make for dinner will always be reservations.
©2019 Rose Madeline Mula for SeniorWomen.com
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