Two nights ago I had my first cooking class. We learned how to cut things properly, grill, and bake. However, as interesting as these new skills were, I have to say the more intriguing part was the opening introductions. One by one we all put our heads down in shame and spoke of our culinary disabilities. I honestly thought someone was going to get up and say they haven't had a drink in ten days and it's killing them. Seriously, it became not just a cooking class, but group therapy for people to admit that they once burned a steak, or used four times the garlic the recipe called for and almost killed their husband.
The other part that amazed me was the majority of the class were older women. They all spoke of how their husbands hate their cooking and their children all eat out. I can't imagine growing up in a home where a home cook meal is more of a death threat than a moment of bliss. (Yes, my parents' meals are moments of bliss and unicorns.)
Anyway, once we got the "confessions" out of the way, the class was actually a lot of fun. Okay, fun because I loved watching the older women destroy the easy recipes they gave us to cook. Honestly, one woman thought a "pinch of salt" meant you grab a handful and dump it into the pot. What are we playing at the beach with sand and making an imaginary meal? (Alright, I apologize for the sarcasm. And no, I didn't admit that I once killed Dan with ground pepper.)
I guess I have to end this entry now. My sponsor just called and said she is feeling like whipping something up. I got to get her off the ledge.