I enjoy cooking. I don’t think I’m particularly good at it, but I do definitely enjoy it, and most of the time what I turn out ends up decent. It’s a fun activity that allows creativity & personalization, and it’s a service in that I’m doing a job that’s helpful to my family.
Lately I’ve been trying to be intentional about handling the family evening meal at least once a week. It makes me feel helpful & I like the praise I get when family and guests enjoy a meal. Plus, Sharaun takes dishwashing duty on evenings when in charge of the meal, and getting a break from that normal chore of mine is also nice.
The point of this writing, though, is this next sentence. Sometimes I just wish I could invite my parents over for a meal I’ve cooked. It’s a thought that’s hit me a few times lately, most recently when I tried (and motherfucking succeeded) smoking a tri-tip. It turned out incredible and served it with salsa and pinquitos and garlic bread, just like grandpa used to do.
I know they would’ve gushed about it, and I would’ve loved that. My dad would’ve asked how long I smoked it, what I rubbed it with, what wood I used, what temperature. He’d have geeked out over the fancy thermometer that connects to my phone and all the nerdy statistics it shows about a cook. Mom would’ve probably offered to make the garlic bread – a simple specialty of hers, where she’d melt the better and rough-chopped garlic together first then paint it liberally on the bread – I do the same but it’s never quite as good as hers.
At least I have good memories of meals like that, I just wasn’t as good as cooking then as I am now.