Recessive Genes

I am really nothing at all like my mother, which is convenient for me because I hate that woman like she's a member of the Judean People's Front, or still uses Internet Explorer. I don't look anything like her, I don't sound like her or walk like her or write like her or anything. Of course, I haven't seen her since 1992, so I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure that I'm off the hook on this one. Except we do share one little quirk....we cook alike.

I say this as if my mother ever cooked, which she didn't, but once or twice a year some Church Royalty Dude would come through town and she'd offer to host him (Yes, him. Always him. Fucking patriarchal cult) at our home for a meal. This would be the one day a year when we ate real food. We loved Church Royalty Dude, because he meant hoagies and Pepsi.

She always cooked something, because she believed that if you had a guest, you cooked, and yes I totally got that trait from her, too. She'd make these amazing, complicated dessert things, or whip up a stew, or make some sort of salad or dip or something and it was always great, always from scratch, always seriously complicated, and she always did it effortlessly. Maybe she'd just stored up a years' worth of energy in her ass, I don't know. What I do know is that, though she didn't, the woman could cook.

You could just never, ever ask her to heat up a tv dinner. That thing would resemble a brick in a war zone by the time she was done with it. Ask for macaroni and cheese? You might as well call the CSI people to help you find it later. She couldn't make anything easy, ever; she just didn't think that way.

Guess who inherited something from her mother after all?

When I buy Kraft Dinner for my kids, I have to buy four boxes because I will, without a doubt, burn or boil to mush the first two boxes without fail, every time. Once, my kids' godfather's mom had 1of3's birthday at her house and asked me to bring ice cream sandwiches, just ice cream sandwiches, and I can't even being to think of the words I'd need to use to describe the monstrosity I brought to her house.

I cannot make cookies. COOKIES, PEOPLE.

I can bake anything. I can make the most complicated pastry, but not a chocolate chip cookie. I can bake the most amazing beef roulade you'll ever put in your face, but ask me to make a simple pot roast; go on, I DARE YOU. I can make homemade green chili that will make you cry out to the virgin Mary for mercy, but this one time I tried to make a homemade marinara and yeah, we're still having nightmares about that one.

I once made a fantastic meatloaf and cooked it on a styrofoam tray. I wish I was kidding.

I couldn't have inherited the green eyes or the jet black hair or the perfect fingernails or the nose that didn't look like a coat hanger, oh no...I had to get her mad kitchen skills. Thanks, really. On the upside, I'm not batshit crazy and I have had sex since 1981, so I'll live with my refrigerated cookie dough and take out chinese and call it even, I suppose.

I'd have really liked that black hair, though. I mean, look at it.

Yes, that's my mother. Shut up.



Bitch.