The Chef is in

I'm not much of a cook. I know it, I own it, I shrug it off.

That fact never bothered me in my carefree pre-kid days, when sometimes dinner consisted of a tuna sandwich or even the occasional Pop-Tart (I love Pop-Tarts). But when I became a mother, I felt like I had to step up the meal preparations in order to raise a healthy child who appreciated healthy food (but he likes Pop-Tarts, too). My friend Jill, and the fact my son has diabetes, really drove home the importance of good, well-balanced meals (which apparently do NOT contain Pop-Tarts).

And so now I cook. Kinda. Well, quasi-cook. I can deliver a mean bowl of pasta (with red sauce--counts as a veggie, no?). I also sneak a couple handfuls of veggies in there to ratchet up the healthiness. I can barbecue pretty well, and again, a couple handfuls of frozen veggies or an ear of summer corn go a long way as side dishes to my sometimes-charred proteins.

But all in all, I thought I was doing an okay job of serving up some good, healthy family dinners. And even if the food wasn't always five-star, I reasoned that equally important was the opportunity to share a meal and share our days together as a family, sitting together at a table, and not in front of the T.V.

Until...

Until my mom started coming up to watch my son. It started a couple summers ago. She came to watch him during the gaps between summer camp ending and school starting. And she put my whole notion of cooking to shame, as she served up some amazing meals. She swore most of the ingredients came from my pantry, fridge, and freezer, but since she never once served us Pop-Tarts, I had my doubts.

It was during this time that Mark learned meals do not consist solely of one entree--they may also include other food on the plate (I explained these were called side dishes, and they complimented the entree). My mom actually served an entree with two, sometimes three side dishes (she explained to Mark that no, it doesn't matter what I say, bread is not a side dish). For a while, I felt a little guilty that the only home-cooked meals my son would ever remember would be my mom's.

But now my mom's returned. She's been coming up to watch my nephew, and her fan base has grown. She used to cook for Mark and I, but now my brother and nephew have joined in. And my cousin Kathleen, who regrets her own childhood meal memories, has become my mom's biggest fan. She and her boyfriend also make regular appearances whenever my mom comes up.

It's kinda sad how much we all appreciate my mom's good cooking. Just the mention that she's coming up to my house gets all of us drooling. My cousin's even started putting in requests, which my mom happily fulfills.

All of which makes me feel a little less pathetic. Because at the end of it all, I may be washing more dishes than I serve, but who cares? Turns out, I'm not the only fan of mom's cooking--I've got a lot of company. Just peer inside the window any time my mom is there, and you'll see I'm not alone. :-)