Spaniards have a phrase for people who don’t know how to cook: Ni puede freír un huevo. (he can’t even fry an egg). This is what my host mom, Concha, told me about my lack of skill in the culinary arts. Yet only a few weeks later, she wanted me to cook a family delicacy.
Doing my best to avoid eye contact, I sheepishly reminded her that I couldn’t even fry an egg. For a moment, Concha gave me a quizzical look, trying to determine whether this was some strange form of American humor, before her eyes lit up.
“Well,” she said in Spanish, “we’ll just have to teach you, then.” With that she dove into the refrigerator and pulled out two raw eggs.
While she prepared a frying pan, I struggled to figure out how to turn on the antiquated gas stove. The brief tutorial I had been given only taught me that any attempt to turn it on with no one around would likely result in the apartment building burning down.
Once the stove was on, Concha gave me my task: crack open the egg, and put it in the frying pan. Simple enough, I thought, as I tried to crack the first egg. I managed to make quite a number of cracks in the shell before it smashed in my hand; the broken yolk ran all over the frying pan.
Concha was unfazed, however, and gave me the second egg to try. This time it split open perfectly, allowing the egg yolk to hit the edge of the frying pan and roll over onto the stovetop. My host mom gave me one of her patented half-disbelief, half-exasperation looks.
“Maybe you should stay away from the kitchen,” she said softly. I heeded her advice and walked out of the kitchen.
I can’t defend my lack of cooking prowess. I would probably burn water given the chance. My problem, however, is greater than simply not knowing recipes; my inability to cook is a combination of clumsiness and pure bad luck. My dad loves his barbeque grill, but the burgers I try to make always ended up falling through the grill into the burning coals. When I help my mom make a salad, there is invariably too much salt or the wrong kind of oil.
I’ve avoided kitchen work throughout my college experience, but the combination of living off-campus and the recent closure of Chu’s—which I long relied on for cheap and tasty food—have forced me to return to the stovetop, despite my clumsiness in the kitchen.
Several weeks ago, I tackled the one dish I knew I could not screw up: pasta in a box. After my – explained to me that a saucepan is not the same a frying pan, I set about trying to boil the pasta in water while not causing any massive disasters, like burning down the house. To my astonishment, I succeeded, and even though the pasta was a bit mushy, the taste of victory was delicious.
Since then, I have slowly worked my way from pasta in a box to pasta not in a box, and then mustered the courage to throw vegetables in the mix. I might be up to tackling chicken in the new few weeks. I’ll eventually work my way up to the fried egg once more. Then I’ll be able to call up Concha, and tell her I can too fry an egg.
