Learning to cook

"There is no sincerer love than a love of food." - George Bernard Shaw

My mom was a good cook.

Actually, that's not true. She was an amazing cook.

That is no exaggeration. You would be amazed - utterly, wholly amazed - at how delicious her fried chicken was. From the crispy crunch of the spicy battered skin, to the tender, moist meat itself, this bird was above and beyond the stuff you were buying in a bucket. The regulars she fed at the little diners where she worked often wondered how that petite spitfire could conjure such gratifying meals day after day.

It was her gift.

It was a gift, however, I didn't care to receive. At least not in my youth.

I loved and appreciated my mother's cooking - and so did all my friends - but I also saw what a chore and burden it was. Mom worked hard and she came home exhausted from being on her feet all day, standing over steam tables, with grills and ovens raging in the background. Her creativity was met with little in the form of wages, as is often the case with an artist. And there were always dishes to be washed, counters disinfected, ovens wiped. After cooking all day, she turned around and whipped up amazing (yes, amazing) dinners on a nightly basis at home. And, again, there were always dishes to be washed, counters disinfected, ovens wiped.

This was not appealing to me. So she taught my siblings how to cook, but I didn't seek her tutelage.

And then she was gone.

With her went not only the technical knowledge - the chemistry of flavor and measurement and preparation - but also the feelings ... the love that she infused into each act ...  for that was truly the essence of her cooking. You see, her gift was not just the ability to cook the food, but it was the gift of sharing - the food, herself, her heart, her soul. She served love every day and every night.

So here I am in my 40s, teaching myself how to cook. I could always make the basics with no complaints from my crew here; both my husband and son have rather bland culinary tastes. But as I've matured, I've yearned to extend more heart into what I prepare. I better understand what cooking meant to my mother because it is beginning to mean something to me beyond sustenance. The preparation is less a chore and more a labor of love. Love that is meant to be shared.

I pretty much use a trial-and-error method, experimenting with recipes and then tweaking them to suit my tastes.

My version of chicken tortilla soup. Chicken, rice, salsa, corn - served with tortilla chips.

I cannot call my mom and ask for advice; cannot hand her a spoon for a nibble to see if the sauce needs more garlic; cannot serve her a meal on simple Corelle dishes as she did for me so very many times.

But I can honor her memory by preparing each meal with heart, sharing not only food, but also the gift that comes from the love of giving to others.

"Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all." - Harriet Van Horne