Cooking gives me high blood pressure. Even cooking for my little family of four is stress inducing, much less if I have to bring something to a potluck.
I have lofty dreams of putting a fancy meal on the table, but I just don’t think that is my calling. I would rather clean all of the bathrooms in the house than cook a dinner that makes me chop something or deal with raw chicken. The next time anyone sees me in the poultry section at the grocery store, just tell me to walk away, because we both know that chicken will end up in the depths of the freezer, with the Hot Pockets on top.
One would think that since I’m a pretty organized person in regards to life, that I would be capable of planning dinner. Unfortunately, that is not the case. Something is always frozen, or I only have four of the 12 ingredients, so I make peanut butter sandwiches instead.
Of note, I can confidently cook eggs. So, I decide I will cook breakfast for dinner, because everyone likes breakfast. What could go wrong?
Step 1: Cook sausage, because that seems logical. Label says to put sausage in a cold pan and fry on low. Sausage is super difficult to get out of its package, but I press on. Sausage in pan, check! Turn knob to low.
Step 2: Pour hash browns into skillet. I’ve never cooked hash browns but the Waffle House folks seem to navigate the “scattered, covered, smothered” order in three seconds, so surely I can cook plain hash browns. In they go! Good luck hash browns! I’m not sure if they need butter, oil or nothing, so I plop some butter in with them and push them around.
Step 3: Eggs, my specialty. I think I will skip breaking the eggs in the bowl first because the Pioneer Woman is always breaking them right in the skillet and that seems easy, so I give it a go. One egg goes in quite nicely, and I dance over with the next egg and tap it on the edge. This egg is not as kind, and a broken eggshell is mixing into my cooking eggs. I try to quickly remove it, but my sausage needs to be turned! I abandon the eggshell and flip over a sausage patty. It’s black as night and burnt to a crisp — it was on low but apparently not extra low. I turn down the eye, flip the rest of my now-burned sausage and go back to my eggs.
That egg shell is totally lost by this point, so I just hope I’m not the unlucky soul who gets that bite. I make a mental note to avoid breaking the eggs in the skillet, like I’m some professional chef, ever again.
I’m starting to sweat as everything is cooking at the speed of lightning — except the hash browns. They are just one big pile of goo. A semi-melty, hash brown pile. It’s not even remotely cooked so I turn up the heat. This is probably what “Goodnight Moon” meant by “goodnight mush.” I try to remedy it without success.
My eggs are done, so I get those and my burnt sausage off the stove. I put my toddler in his chair and scoop some eggs onto his plate.
“Yuck, eggs!” he exclaims. My 7-year-old then walks in and says, “What’s that smell? Ew.”
Well, great.
My husband knows my level of kitchen prowess, so he should know to tread lightly, but he makes a face at my hash brown pile when he comes into the kitchen. He comes over to try to save it. I am no longer in a good mood, as this dinner has tried to age me, so I don’t take his help easily. I stomp over to make a plate of mushy hash browns and burnt sausage, and I attempt to swallow my pride.
I don’t think husbands can quite comprehend how close to the edge that we moms teeter on. One second we are fine and dancing eggs across the kitchen, and the next we are swearing off cooking altogether and yelling at everyone.
I have to remind myself that I am a working mother. I am good at a lot of things — loving my kiddos, running our home, cleaning and organizing — but cooking just isn’t one of those things. Thankfully, cooking is something that can be learned, when life runs at a slower pace, so I will be patient with myself.
To all the husbands: Bear with us, pour us a glass of wine, and for the love,
order pizza!
Alana is a nurse anesthetist, writer and boy mom (ages 7 and 2), who lives in north Shelby County with her husband, kids and Boxer, Sam. When she’s not writing or chasing little humans, she can usually be found in the aisles of Target. She shares her writings at Holy Moly Motherhood (on Facebook and Instagram), where she takes on all things motherhood and marriage.
