Quench Me When I'm Thirsty, Come On And Cool Me Down, Baby, When I'm Hot, Your Recipe, Darling, Is So Tasty, When You Show And Stir Your Pot

--"Stir It Up", Bob Marley

While I was in Kentucky, Toby let me in on the fact that her mom taught her how to cook from the time she was eight, as she did both her sisters. When I let her in on the fact that my mom never exactly taught me how to cook for myself, that everything I know I learned from television or independent reading, she was astonished. The fact it was such a part of her everyday life and such a gaping hole in my education was perplexing to her. She couldn't understand it. I attempted to play it off that I grew up in a house with a father, mother, and two sons. Learning how to cook wasn't high on the list of priorities of skills I needed to acquire--not like learning how to mow the lawn, take out the trash, and other manly pursuits. Toby just automatically assumed that for someone who enjoys eating food as much as I do that I would naturally take the next step in learning its preparation.

That's when I had to tell her the truth.

Cooking, like many other areas in my parents' house, was a way of controlling me and my brother--a subtle one, but a way nonetheless. It took me a lot of years to figure out why my dad got upset every time I would try making something the least bit complicated in the kitchen. He would hem and haw about how much noise I was making. Or he would continually repeat that I needed to make sure everything was tidied up after I was done in the kitchen. Or, worse, he would kick me out of the kitchen once he saw me starting to gather my ingredients or equipment. Granted, the layout of our house meant that the kitchen was butt-up against the den. No matter what one does there's no way to be absolutely silent when you're making a meal. I can say how it might be bothersome when somebody's trying to concentrate on a show. But it still didn't explain why he never seemed to complain when my mom was making dinner or why he never seemed to complain when I was making something fast but just as loud.

What I came up with is the fact they never wanted me to learn how to cook. They never wanted me to possess that skill because, as far as I could figure, the less I knew how to fend for myself the more I'd have to rely on them. If I was compelled to spend all my money eating out it would be that much harder for me to honestly live on my own. It was against their goals for me to gain my independence too early. That's why when Miss Delftwaves told me that her mom made it a point for her to learn some of the basics at eight, it didn't make sense to me. The only other experience I could relate to was Breanne, but her family was more like mine in where if her mother didn't cook they just went out to eat. Never have I heard a family situation where the offspring would two or three times a month cook the family meal. It just was unheard of.

Cooking to me was just another avenue of subjugation that my parents employed. I added it to the list of ways they withheld information that could have been useful to me. It made sense with the pattern they had established. For example, talking in tagalog whenever they wanted to have a private conversation away from my brother and I. For example, not telling me my first name until I was eight. For example, hiding my social security card from me until I was seventeen to the point where I had to plead with them to give me my social security number so I could fill out my college applications.

It's no wonder I spent so much of my time in my converted guest house/room. For a long time I felt so tightly reined in by them in the queerest of ways that I didn't want to do with myself. In fact, one of the first real connections Breannie and I had was bitching about our parents, and the way they held us in check. At least her mother was overt about it. My mom would drive me crazy by devising strange ways to be withholding. She needed ways to insure that I always need her somewhat. Cooking was just one of the easiest.

"I mean, think about it, Marion. What's more basic than the need for food? If you can't make the food yourself then, of course, you're going to go find the nearest source for it."

"You more than anyone get that antsy," she laughed.

But it's true. Even when I didn't particularly care for the food, I still took it back to my room. The need to eat overwhelmed my desire not to take any free handouts from them. Even when I could drive and really distinguish the types of food I really liked, more often than not I took the easy way out and just ate whatever my mom was serving at the time.

I'll just say it. I hate my mom's cooking. I hate it in the same way my cousin Vincent hates my aunt's cooking. It just isn't good when compared to the food we've been exposed to since we were old enough to really appreciate food.

I can only imagine how much more enamored of food I would have been had I started seeing the subtleties of the way its prepared at eight like Toby. She's ten years younger than me, but she already knows twice as much than I do in the way of making some outstanding dishes. The worst part about it is she doesn't even like cooking.

I love to cook and I don't know crap compared to her. In the end, she'll get over her annoyance of it and it'll be a useful life skill later on. She's a better individual because of the knowledge. Me? I'm always going to feel like I'm lacking in that area, that I've fallen so far behind in a hobby I really could have gotten into because of my mom and dad--all because they didn't want me to learn too much too early. I don't know if it was because they were afraid I would mess up... or because I would succeed.

And that just makes me sad.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers