Cooking Up Disaster

April 1997

My mother frantically searched for her camera this Easter, claiming she was witnessing a miracle in this season primed for such events.

"Hurry, Aunt Helen!" she shouted. "Kyra’s in the kitchen!"

Yes, it was true. I was in that room using it for its main purpose: cooking. Of course, that culinary stint consisted of a couple of beaters and a carton of whipped cream, but it still attracted a house-full of attention.

I can’t cook.

I might be able to do so if I studied or even tried, but I have more desire to scrub oil stains off the driveway than flip an omelet. And even if I crammed like a law student for the Bar exam, I still don’t think I’d pass any cooking test.

I truly believe I was absent the day God passed out the culinary gene to the Kirkwood clan. Or maybe my family was overcompensated, so I entered this world denied of said skill. My dad can see a photo of gourmet meal and recreate it right down to the parsley sprig. My mother makes every sort of comfort food, from casseroles to chicken noodle soup. (Kinda makes you want to get sick just so she’ll whip up a batch of her kitchen medicine.) And my younger sister’s cookies, pies and cakes are legendary.

And then there’s me. Microwave Mama. Heat-And-Eat Honey. If a certain dish takes more than 10 minutes to prepare, from opening the fridge to opening my mouth, I’m not interested.

Perhaps the moment that convinced my family members that I’m a hopeless Julia Child happened one Thanksgiving. I tried to make cornbread from scratch.

Let’s be nice and say it was completely inedible. My mother gave me a hug and said I’d always have my writing. The ceaseless laughter coming from my sister’s mouth didn’t quite drown out the sound of grinding teeth as those gathered around the holiday table tried to masticate my mess. My fiancé choked down a square and tried to quash his gag reflex with some water. My dad patted him on the back and said loudly, "Thank God you can cook, son."

I’ve not exactly been banished from the kitchens of the world, but nobody rolls out the red carpet for me, either. On Easter morning, while the family bounced from refrigerator to stove to counter to oven like pinballs, I stood and watched uselessly.

"Can I stir this?" I asked my dad. "Can I frost those?" I begged my sister. For I knew if they did all the cooking, I’d be stuck with all the clean up.

But my plan was foiled from the start. Mom smiled knowingly and handed me the napkins to set on the table.

Guess I better make good with those dishpan hands.