They say a way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and maybe the reason I've been single for so long is I hate to cook.
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My rocky relationship with cooking began in seventh-grade home economics class when I got a D on my buttermilk biscuits. (Or "Karin's shot puts," as the class affectionately called them.)
"I have two words to say to you," my teacher said in her infinite wisdom. "Take out."
I managed to avoid cooking until I had a child. Children expect to eat - three times a day! You can ply them with Similac and Gerber for a while, but eventually kids expect solid food.
The whole cooking issue came to a head when my son, Brandon, was about 6, and he came home from visiting his grandmother.
"Mommy! Grandma made a whole meal without opening a single can or a box."
"That's the way they used to do it in the olden days," I said, quickly. "Thank goodness those dark ages are over."
"And Grandma said that not all cookies come from packages!" he said incredulously.
The older Brandon got, the harder it was to hide my failings in the kitchen. How pathetic it would be if, as an adult, when asked about his mom's cooking, he'd have to say, "She microwaved a mean bowl of SpaghettiOs."
In the interest of creating memories for my son, I began to dabble in the culinary arts.
Because of past disasters, I had a mistrust of recipes. When instructions read, "Will thicken when stirring," I'd automatically think, "Will thicken when pigs fly." Whenever I had the occasional success, I'd flip out.
"Look! A beautiful potpie," I'd say. "It's brown and bubbly on the top. Isn't that amazing?"
"It looks great, Mom. Let's eat!"
"Eat? Oh, I don't know. Don't you think we should admire it some more?"
That's the thing about cooking. For me, it's so taxing that instead of being happy with some appreciative "mmm, mmms" I'm always angling for a 20-gun salute.
"Do you have any idea what I've been through," I'd say. "I was exposed to extreme temperatures, and forced to handle very sharp knives. Things were curdling in there!"
Somehow Brandon and I made it through most of his childhood without drinking too many bottles of Pepto-Bismol.
Then I met my future fiance, David, and one night - knowing he was an accomplished cook - I decided to prepare something complicated to impress him.
I messed up the meal and David performed triage on my dying dish.
Like an emergency surgeon, he called out directives to me: "Slotted spoon. Tarragon. Cornstarch."
It was touch-and-go for a while, but supper was saved.
My son can always tell who is cooking that night by asking, "What's for dinner?" If it's salmon in a lemon-dill sauce, it's probably David. If it's ramen noodles with a side of cling peaches, it's probably me.
Oops. Make that burnt ramen noodles.
AUGUSTA RESIDENT KARIN GILLESPIE IS THE AUTHOR OF BET YOUR BOTTOM DOLLAR. SHE CAN BE REACHED THROUGH HER WEB SITE AT WWW.KARINGILLESPIE.COM.
