I need better motivation than this...

After one take-out dinner too many, I started cooking again last week. You'd think my son would be overjoyed at the prospect of so many lovingly-prepared homemade dinners, but you would be wrong.

The reasons I like and hate cooking for Mark are exactly the same: he's dead honest. If he likes something, I know it. If he doesn't, I know it, too. I also know when cleans his plate  just because he's hungry, not because he loves the food. When I ask, "How was it?" he answers with a side-turned hand wave and an "Eh..."

I don't mind the critiques. The only thing that really irritates me is when I asked for menu ideas and he shrugged.

"If you don't give input on the menu, you can't complain about the meal," I warned him.

"But what if it's really bad?" he asked.

"We aren't there yet," I said. "All I'm doing now is taking suggestions."

The week did not go great. I made a slow-cooker lasagna (bad, for the second time--I'm tossing that recipe); steak and potatoes (not a great cut of meat); Chinese chicken salad (thumbs-up, but this one's always a winner); and butternut squash soup (amazing!). I think the soup was the best thing I made--it was so good I ate it two nights in a row.

Mark, however, offered a different opinion.

"It looks like baby food," he observed.

"It's not baby food!" I answered, defensively. "It's soup. And it's GOOD. I roasted this squash for an hour and a half--it's AWESOME."

He reluctantly tried a spoonful, passing the smallest amount he could through his lips.

"It's not really a soup," he said. "It's more like a sauce."

I pulled my soup bowl back. "It's not a sauce," I groused. "It's soup. And it's good."

He patted my shoulder condescendingly. "It's okay," he said, gently. But he couldn't stop himself, and added, "For a sauce..."

This was my fifth night (in a row!) of cooking, and I was grumpy. I'd made breakfasts, I'd made lunches, and I'd certainly made dinners, all for an unappreciative audience. I was tired of measuring, cooking, and washing dishes, and I was tired of the not-helpful feedback.

"You're on your own for dinner," I told the little food critic. "Eat whatever you can make."

I knew that would make him happy; what I didn't expect was outright glee. This was what he chose:

"I'm having tuna!" he said. "And a croissant." He smacked his lips in anticipation.

He brought his meal to the table. I watched, waiting for him to stuff the croissant with tuna. Instead, he ate the two separately.

"You're not making a sandwich?" I asked.

"No, I like tuna right out of the bowl," he answered. He smiled, then he finished it off, occasionally biting into the croissant.

And there you have it. That right there is why I don't cook--because my kid loves canned fish and Costco croissants. He prefers a de-constructed tuna sandwich to anything I actually cook.

I watched him, smiling and happily enjoying his dinner, and I thought, how can I possibly compete with that?

The Chef is in

Mark is an adventurous eater, and will try almost anything. Which, as his mom, I love, but as his cook, I hate. Each time he eats something wonderful and exclaims, "Mom, you should make this!" I nod, and say I will. But we both know my version will not be nearly as tasty.

However, he finally picked a recipe I could not only replicate, but I could improve. That was the good news. The bad news is that he requested something I not only refused to make, but am vehemently against in the first place.

"Mom, will you buy me some Uncrustables?" he begged, last time we went grocery shopping.

"Some what?" I asked.

He dragged me to the frozen food section.

"Uncrustables!" he shouted, pointing to--I kid you not--a box of frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

And true to their name, the crusts had been cut off, leaving rounded, UFO-shaped white-bread sandwiches.

I stared at Mark. "Seriously?" I asked.

I'm not sure if he'd finally lowered his standards to my skill level, or if he...gulp...really just wanted some crappy PB&Js. I'm guessing it was the latter.

Seeing those frozen sandwiches brought back painful childhood memories. My own mom went through a time-saving phase for lunches, pre-making and freezing PB&Js and cheese sandwiches. She'd pop them in to our lunches to defrost by noon, but they never did, instead turning to soggy, mushy messes. (Surprising that my brothers and I all refuse to make sack lunches to this day!)

Anyway, I shuddered at the memory, but then I felt bad for the kid--he wasn't asking for much. So the next morning, I did what any good-intentioned mother would do...I made Mark my own version of an Uncrustable. (I made him a pair!)




They came out pretty well. I used wheat bread instead of the processed white stuff, and cut them out using a round glass. The edges weren't scalloped like the name-brand Uncrustables, but other than that, they were pretty close facsimiles.

I bagged the sandwiches and sent Mark to school. When he returned, I asked him how he liked his Uncrustable.

"It was good!" he said. "Except..."

"Except what?" I asked.

"It needs to be more...cold," he told me. "Like it just came out of the freezer."

I smiled, then responded by smacking him on the head.

I may not be a great cook, but even I have a shred of dignity and pride. If I'm gonna win a cooking beat-down, I want to lose to the Iron Chef, or a Top Chef--not to Smuckers!

Burning down the house

My New Year's resolution was to cook more and eat out less. This was for numerous reasons, but mostly because when I'd tell Mark it was dinner time, he'd clap and say, "Yummy, where are we going?"

So far the results have been...mixed. Nothing has turned out inedible, but I've had varying degrees of success. I'm on the beginner track, which means mostly using my Crock Pot. (Hoping to graduate to the big oven soon.) I like that I can cook different stuff in there (chicken, beef, pork, lasagna) and that all I have to do is dump in the ingredients, turn it on low, and walk away for eight hours. (Cooking dinner while I'm at work = WICKED COOL!)

I've learned through trial and error that searing the meat before it goes into the pot is key--so far, most of my meals turned into unintentional stews. I've backed out of those disasters by telling Mark we're having our meal au jus, so it sounds like it's supposed to be that way.

But this morning, I was, perhaps, a little too ambitious. I had an early meeting, and a tri-tip roast that needed cooking. I planned to toss the roast into the Crock Pot before running off to work (I'm an awesome multi-tasker).

To minimize the time, I'd prepped everything before the meeting. The carrots, potatoes, celery and onion were all sliced, and the beef broth was ready to pour. All I had to do was sear the roast.

And here is where the process broke down. I finished my meeting and cranked up the fire to get my searing pan nice and hot. I'd added cooking spray, but it needed a little more, so I aimed the can and shot it--right into my eyes! Had the dang thing pointed the wrong way! I missed the pan completely, and gave myself an eyeful of canola oil instead.

By the time I'd finished rinsing out my eyes, the pan was super hot--perhaps a little too hot (smoking pans are bad, right?). In fact, the smoking was not limited to just the pan, I managed to smoke up the whole house, too.

So I rubbed my smarting eyes, and stumbled down the hallway. I turned on the powerful house fan to suck up the smoke--and realized I hadn't opened any windows. Running to the living room confirmed my worst fears--my fireplace had erupted like Mt. Vesuvius, shooting a fine, ashen silt layer all over the room. (I never really believed the previous home owner when he said that could happen. I believe now!)

I sighed. Partially-blind and reeking of smoky beef, I opened the windows, and then swept/dusted my living room before finally leaving for work.

I dunno...I want to enjoy cooking, but so far, it seems pretty dangerous!

Well, almost everyone knows...

My little man fancies himself quite a chef, especially now that he's learned to grill cheese sandwiches all by himself. This has also doubled his recipe collection; previously, his stable contained exactly one good recipe for butternut squash, which he pilfered from my friend Kelley and now takes sole credit for creating.

But he's also got a healthy self-confidence, which I love. It's hilarious to listen to him take credit for amazing skills he's never quite had the opportunity to prove. Come to think of it, he's never disproved them either, so who knows, maybe he is as wonderful a football player, chef, and artist in real life as he is in his head.

Last night we were watching Hell's Kitchen, which is kind of a dumbed-down Top Chef. The cooks are just that--cooks, not chefs--and while they do have a famous chef judging them, he spends more time yelling at them than actually encouraging or praising them. Mark and I like to hear him scream "Donkey!" at everyone in his angry English accent.

Anyway, they were serving up breakfast to paramedics. The meal consisted of scrambled eggs, French toast, bacon, sausage and fruit. When a cook messed up the eggs, Mark shook his head and sighed.

"Come on!" he yelled at the T.V. He held his hands in the air and snorted, "Everyone knows how to make eggs and French toast!"

This was news to me.

"Do you know how to scramble eggs?" I asked.

He shook his head.

"Can you make French toast?" I asked.

He admitted that no, he could not do that either. I proposed that perhaps we should not judge the TV cooks so harshly, then. He smiled and nodded.

"Do you want me to teach you how to cook eggs?" I inquired, but for the third time, he shook his head no.

"I don't like eggs," he answered. "Or French toast."

Which was fine by me. Because I was in no position to judge those cooks either, unless they jacked up my famous breakfast speciality--peanut butter toast.

This is why I politely decline...

...whenever Mark offers to make lunch.

"I'm gonna have half a sandwich," Mark just told me. "Want me to make you one?"

"No thanks, I'm good," I replied.

"But I'm making turkey and peanut butter," he said, as though that would change my mind.

"Ewww!" I cried. "Together? That's so gross!"

"No, Mom, it's sooooo good," he said. "You should try it, the peanut butter really brings out the flavor of the turkey."

Before I could answer that, my gag reflex replied instead.

"Ack," I coughed. "No thanks."

But he was insistent, and offered me a bite. "Just try it, Mom," he pleaded.

So I did. And it tasted like...turkey and peanut butter. Together. It was about as good as it sounds, which is to say...not great.

"You're right," I lied to Mark. "It is pretty good."

He started beaming, and clapped is hands. Which completely made biting that sandwich worth it.

But I'm still making dinner tonight, no matter what he says!

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.)