Over the years I have been accused of being a good cook. That has always found me incredibly funny, because whether or not I could cook, let alone cook well, was neither here nor there for me for a long time. Cooking was never on my priority list. I always had better things to learn or do.
When I was growing up, my mother was the one in our family who cooked. Everything. That’s how she wanted it. Except that she didn’t really enjoy cooking for the family. She relied heavily on the recipe and unless she had everything a recipe called for, she wouldn’t try to make it. Nothing ruined her day more than the lack of an ingredient or in enough quantity to complete a recipe. No substitutions allowed.
I didn’t get to see my mom cook much because she replaced me early on as her main ingredient picker. No meal was complete unless I had to dig through cupboards, stand on my head in the freezer, sprint to the secluded “junk room” (utility room) upstairs), take a trip to the basement, or perhaps the yard in search of something she needed. It was a great system for someone. Just not me.