My mom just tried to kill me

My family is full of really good cooks. Not just my mom, but all my brothers and sisters-in-law, too. Dinner at any of their houses is a treat to look forward to.

I, on the other hand, am a really good patron. Which means, I can't cook worth a damn, but I can point you to all the best restaurants.

But my brothers have been making me feel a little self-conscious about my culinary skills lately. This was most apparent at a dinner my brother Brad made. Mark was scarfing down the food, and only stopped once, briefly, to ask for more broccoli.

Seriously, he wanted more BROCCOLI! My kid, who won't eat anything that even resembles a vegetable, requested a second helping of my brother's broccoli. (I have never before--nor since--heard him repeat this request.)

And so, I picked up the gauntlet. I can't have my child growing up thinking the only homemade meals come out of Grandma's or his uncles' houses.

I started with a relatively easy meal--pasta. It had an Asian flair, and though it came from a box, I personally cooked it and added the spice packet, so I'm declaring that homemade. It was a little salty, but Mark gave it a thumbs up.

The next meal was ribs. I don't eat any meat other than chicken or turkey, but I figured I could grill it on the barbecue. I was a little concerned when I called my mom to confirm this and she said, "How long do you have to cook it?"

I was thinking, "Whaddaya mean, how long? It's five o'clock, I've got about 30 minutes!"

What I said was, "How long will it take?"

My mom instructed me to bake the ribs, informing me this could take as long as two hours. (And I would cook dinner for two hours why?) We compromised on baking them for an hour, then grilling them, which shaved off 30 minutes.

Mark also gave this recipe a thumbs up, albeit as a back-handed compliment.

"They're good," he proclaimed, and my heart swelled with pride. Then he deflated it by adding, "For you."

"They're not as good as Grandma's," he explained. "Grandma makes everything better than you."

My third attempt was black bean and pasta soup. Again, it came from a bag, but I had to wash, cook, and drain the beans twice, which again, I declare is cooking. I also added a chicken breast and veggies to make the soup healthier. Unfortunately, I did not add any additional liquids, so the "soup" turned into a chunky, gloppy stew better eaten with a fork. Which we tried. And did not like. And poured down the garbage disposal, replacing it with a can of clam chowder Mark inhaled.

I was about to give up on all this culinary crap, when my mom suggested I start smaller. She's a huge fan of Sam the Cooking Guy, and swore his recipes were so simple, even I couldn't mess them up. (I appreciate her misguided faith in me.)

So last night, armed with my Sam cookbook, a bottle of salsa, some chicken broth, tortillas, avocados and chicken breast, I whipped up a batch of Sam's tortilla soup.

It was amazing -- from start to finish, it took 20 minutes. As it was cooking, Mark wandered into the kitchen, lured by the wonderful smell. I felt so proud, and thought maybe my mom was right--even I hadn't screwed this up!

Until I sampled the soup and screamed like a banshee.

Mark came running back to the kitchen. "What's wrong?" he asked, alarmed.

"Burned my tongue," I cried.

Not because the soup was hot, but because the soup was spicy. The kind of spicy you find in, say...FIRE!

But I'd already tossed out one pot of soup last week, I wasn't going to toss another. I pretended like the whole last moment hadn't occurred, and I sent Mark to the table bearing tortilla strips, cheese and avocados, all of which I hoped would mellow the flavor. It did not.

In between huge gulps of soda (which Mark set on my placemat with an ominous, "You will need this!"), I called my mom.

"You and Sam tried to kill me!" I cried. "Why would you suggest that recipe??"

"You used medium salsa?" she asked, and between my coughing and gagging, I peeped, "Yes."

"No, no, that's too hot!" she exclaimed. "You've got to use mild! I should've told you before."

I wiped the sweat from my eyes, and sputtered, "It's not that hot, I think I can finish it--" but was cut short by another coughing fit. Damn, that soup was burning my throat, my lips, my mouth! That was some hot soup!

And so, today, I think I shall hang up my apron. Tonight we are having tacos, made from pre-seasoned ground turkey stuffed into store-bought tortillas. I may add my own little flare with some diced lettuce (from a pre-washed bag of salad), and maybe even a little pre-grated cheese for color. I probably won't taste any of it, because I'm pretty sure I burned away all of my tastebuds last night, but at least it will look pretty.

I don't care what my mom says, Sam is not idiot proof. I can bear first-hand witness to that. (And Mark, unfortunately, will second that.)