In what seems to be a pattern, I was working late tonight. Again.
My oldest daughter was home with the other three kids, and they seemed to be doing okay. But when I informed her how late I was going to be and that I couldn’t make dinner. I wasn’t able to transfer funds into her account and she’d have to either do PB&J . . . which apparently wasn’t what she wanted to do . . .
I told her there was hamburger in the freezer, buns in the cupboard, and chips in the pantry. Now . . . hamburgers are not the most difficult thing in the world to make. Shape a patty, little salt, little pepper, throw them in the pan, fry the hell out of them.
She didn’t want to do that.
On more than one occasion Abbi’s made the comment like her mother used to make: “I feel sorry for a guy who ends up with me. I can’t cook anything!”
But she’s wrong. She can sing, just like I can. She’s smart, like all her siblings and relatives. She can do this . . . the difference is she doesn’t want to do it. That’s a big thing.
There are some things that she needs to prepare for before leaving out into this big, bad, world, and she’s about to get the lessons my mother gave me. You don’t have to be Julia Child to eat. But you should know how to do two things:
One comfort food: maybe a roast, or chicken noodle soup or just hamburgers.
One fancy meal: that’s dealer’s choice. But at some point – and I’ve told her I don’t want to know when it happens – she’s going to invite a guy over for dinner and she won’t be able to fake cooking it. Not really.
So I’m working on getting her to learn some basic culinary skills. She can make cookies. She made freaking cake pops one day.
It’s not lack of knowledge or ability, it’s simply that she doesn’t want to do it.
I’ll be honest, I didn’t cook a lot when I was her age. My Mom forced me to learn in my senior year of high school and I’m glad I did. In college, living in an apartment, I lived on Clearly Canadian drinks and Old El Paso chimichangas. But every once in awhile I got hungry for cookies . . . and I made them. I made my grandma’s cinnamon rolls – and they were a hit with the members of my band, my work, and eventually my girlfriend and her roommates. They were insanely unhealthy, but I was cooking to impress, not to be healthy.
So this weekend, I’m forcing Abbi to cook. Whether she likes it or not.
You need to learn to cook a meal, folks. At least one!