Food for Thought

Today's adventures led to the store picking up the perfect ingredients to make the mouth-watering cake I am currently digging into. Not to have a big head, but in my completely biased and over exaggerated opinion, it is almost perfect. It is something I am happy to eat and happy to share. My chocolate covered masterpiece has flooded my mind with another time I found myself in the kitchen.
To follow me down memory lane, let’s first picture me standing in the kitchen. I am 5 foot 3, 19 years old, and am working away with all the tools a well-equipped kitchen has to offer. Sadly, our picture is not quit accurate yet. First, we must turn back the clock about fourteen years. I am much smaller, much cuter and much more imaginative. So here I stand in all my five year old glory ready to whip up a creation that I can still taste in my mouth all these years later.
On today's menu is freshly baked bread. Even from a young age, I always had a love of bread. So today, I am setting off to make my own, and like all good chefs, I have a trusted process. First things first, I must make sure I have all of my tools ready and easy to reach. Lucky for me, I only need two things. First, I need one flimsy Tupperware bowl, the kind that they sell whipped cream in works well.  Next I need something to stir with. Here, I am not picky - any spoon, spatula, or even a fork will do. Now that my stage is set, it is time for the play to begin.
Our show opens with the flashy scene of selecting the world’s finest ingredients. The first actor to take center is a slice of white bread. As any foodie would gather, the process of making bread is much like making yogurt. If bread is what we aim to make, first we must add a slice. Now the drama thickens. Into the blow goes a flurry of eggs, milk, water, ketchup, and cheese. If you think this show is sounding too predictable, we will mention the entrance of the comic relief: Bacon bits.
Now that things are heating up, it is time to bake.
I may have been old enough to bake a tasty snack for family and friends, but find me any five year old who is ready to use an oven. So to avoid this hazard, the microwave was used in its stead. For best results, use a chair when moving the dish in and out to avoid spilling. Now my very favorite part about this bread is the speed at which it bakes. Simply set the timer for two minutes and wait.
If you fallow this process, your bread should have the appealing look of vomit and be about the same lukewarm temperature.
Like all good cooks, I know that in the sport of fairness, I should share my bread with my family before selfishly tasting my own first bite. Like most families, they were sure to be surprised to see that someone had taken the time to turn their hard earned groceries into an enjoyable treat. However, my family is not like the majority. My mother seemed to care more about the mess, and my father cared more about the waste. So into the kitchen I was marched, to face the scene of the crime. Most families would see the mess, and send a child right to my room, but as above stated, my family is not normal.
I remember hearing a monologue about not wasting food and cleaning up messes, but I was not told to get out of the kitchen. Instead, my dad told me I was free to cook anytime as long as I followed on rule. Everything that was cooked must be eaten, and though I was allowed to share, it was up to me to eat what others could not stomach.
So my bread was placed on the table and a spoon was placed in my hand. For the first time, I saw my bread for what it really was. A Tupperware bowl full of chunky, smelly, lukewarm puke.  One bite was enough to make even the strongest stomach want to hurl, the plus side being that it could taste no worse going up than it did going down.
My father stuck by that rule, and somehow I never stooped cooking; I simply changed my methods. From then on, I started asking if ketchup went with pickles, or if anyone would eat a peanut butter and cheese sandwich.  Now, fourteen years down the road, I have learned a thing or two. I am glad that my father made me eat that slop, because if he had not, I may have never found the true joy of cooking.