This cooking thing, she is not as easy as she looks

After this weekend of taking care of a broken husband (he tore his left leg hamstring, I of course think it is hilarious that his boss asked him if playing cards is not a more appropriate sport for a man his age), and keeping the red dogs calm due to jogs having to be planned according to the rain (yes, I hate walking and jogging in the rain!), I am contemplating not only housewife duties, but more specifically, the whole business of cooking and baking. Due to our housebound state, I have been cooking and baking this weekend, and survived this ordeal. Yes, I admit, this sounds like an advertisement. And no, I don’t want an apron thank you. Not yet, anyway.

I, as a previously full time working singleton and later wife, had no qualms about the fact that I was what you would call an average (at best) cook. At university, my limited repertoire was spotted within weeks of sharing a flat with a (still) good friend (clearly she accepted my limited cooking skills as one of those things, possibly because I was a good drinking and partying buddy), when we, together with two other friends of ours, decided to at least have four “proper” meals a week, in other words, each person cooked a meal once a week. After the first three weeks, the girls realised that I could only make sticky chicken and macaroni cheese. Needless to say, my first birthday present was a cookbook. I am still too scared to look at it, but it did make the move from South Africa to Spain.

After finishing university, travelling and starting my articles, I met my husband, but still had not improved my cooking skills, unless making a killer salad, being able to cook pasta, perfecting oven roasted vegetables and making edible sandwiches, counts as cooking, which I strongly suspect does not.

Pretty soon into married live, my husband and I (good heartedly) made certain ground rules: I was not allowed to touch meat (meat should apparently not be burnt black); I was not allowed to make eggs (those damn things can get quite rubbery) and rice was just a no-no.

My husband, bless him, can cook, and for this I thank my mother in law. My husband and his sister each had a “cooking turn” over weekends. I assume that this meant a whole lot of toasted cheese sandwiches, but still. My mother in law had foresight; she knew her son would marry me, the worst cook in the world.

My husband is one of those people who just loves the creativity of cooking, which drives people like me crazy: he can just look at the cupboard or fridge and make a meal. I would look at the same cupboard and fridge, and promptly jump in my car and race to Woolworths. On this point I place on record that I think I have individually succeeded in making the shareholders and directors of Woolworths very, very damn rich. Bastards. But at least my alleged cooking skills “improved”.

Through my married years, I received a couple of kitchen utensil gifts which I always eyed with suspicion, put away in the cupboard for a rainy day (I mean, what is a pressure cooker for?), and still shopped at Woolworths.

How was I supposed to know that the rainy day would be when we hopped, skipped and jumped and ended in Spain. Without Woolworths. Without Mrs. Balls Chutney.

Suddenly, I was completely and utterly out of my depth.

Firstly, I, for example, loved the “Cook in Sauces” that was sold everywhere in South Africa, any stew tasted wonderful. Of course, I took credit for this. Sorry. Now, sauces are made from scratch. That’s fine, I can live with that, but to find the items on the Spanish shops can be quite a challenge, it seems people here are not that fond of spicy food. So, the learning curve for making sauces has commenced. I have found one sauce from a good friend, my husband thinks it is the best sauce ever. However, now I hear horror of people making their own stock. Yes, indeed, people do that. I shall not even begin to consider such a bold step, thank you very much, Oxo stock it shall be.

Secondly, recipes are quite stressful I have realised. I tend to follow a recipe down to the last gram, but I now realise that it is not always possible to have the exact same ingredients in this country, and as such, I have to improvise. Yes, my throat closes up at this point and I grab the closest bottle of alcohol I can find.

Thirdly, I have started finding out the purpose of a lot of these kitchen gifts: I think a pressure cooker is wonderful; my slow cooker is working overtime; I at long last know how to use the garlic press; I now use that Verimark “Twista” thing, and I even went and bought new pots.

Around Halloween I tried for the first time to make an oxtail stew, in our slow cooker, and I was gobsmacked that my guests did not go running for the hills. None of the sauces where homemade though, sorry, but I had bought them myself.

Today I was very bold and tried a completely new recipe, Coq a Vin. This means chicken and a box of wine. I was horrified by the smells emanating from my kitchen, but, the guinea pig (my husband), after tasting some of this new creation, promptly announced that I am the best wife in the world. This may be due to the fact that I have to help him get back up one flight of stairs, into bed, with his pills and cream on his torn ligament, and therefore I am in a position of power, but I would like to think it may be due to the fact that the food is edible.

As such, I have developed a very sound respect for woman (and men) that can cook and bake, and with such grace and ease that it seems effortless. But, as I read somewhere, it is apparently a skill that requires trial and error. I really hope that there will be more trials than errors in my learning curve, but I do know that the red dogs will not mind having some of the errors.