Oops.

Yesterday, in a wild burst of Domestic Goddess-ery, I decided to turn the rotting bananas on my counter into delicious banana bread. Having procured a loaf pan earlier that day, I decided to strike while the iron was hot. While sauteing onions and garlic for dinner, I managed to measure, scoop, mash and cream my ingredients together in my Kitchen-Aid, an indispensable tool if one wishes to make anything fabulous. I scraped everything into my buttered and floured loaf pan, threw it in the oven and ate my dinner with a sense of contentment generally reserved for more talented people.
After it had come out and cooled a little, I cut 2 slices and realized what I had done. Shit. The thing was raw in the middle. Pride deflated, sense of contentment tucked back into ante-chamber where it will lie in wait for other faux successes, disappointment. Now most people say it's ok to have baked goods that are a little raw and to that I agree. But this one wasn't just a little raw. It was unhealthily raw. Which brings me to the subject of today's post- (or rant or latest installment of What Grinds My Gears, take your pick) my culinary blunders of late.
I realized a few weeks ago that I do very little cooking anymore. Living alone makes dinner a rather sombre event as cooking a well balanced meal for one is just too pathetic for words. So I go out to eat, or I take in, or I assemble bread and cheese haphazardly into a dinner sandwich. I decided the other day to get back on the horse and roast a chicken. It was Sunday night, the house was clean, it needed to smell like roasting meat. I rubbed the chicken with olive oil, seasoned him up with salt and pepper, stuffed his cavity with lemons, garlic and onions and bade him a fond farewell as I tucked him into the oven. "Yes my friend. I will see you when you're golden and delicious. Oh Yes."
Again, I was more than pleased with myself. Here I was, cleaning, roasting, baking, setting the bar uncomfortably high for all women. 40 minutes in I decided to check on him. Something looked funny.
Shit.
He was upside down. No wonder I couldn't truss him properly. Feeling I hadn't really ruined him, I turned him around and finished him on his back. In doing so he went from a nice juicy bird to a dried out, leathery carcass. I won't even get started on the "gravy" I made which was little more than cooked fat and flour. I even forgot to season it. Really? Really????
I'm pretty sure I went to cooking school. I'm pretty sure I worked in restaurants and have considered cooking and food related things to be not only my passion but in some cases, my actual raison d'etre.
As you can imagine, when one no longer identifies with the things that identify them, the very core of your being is rocked. The notion of me being a bad cook is more than upsetting, it makes me feel like I've been living some sort of lie.
What I've come to realize, however, is that cooking, like all craft, requires practice and in the absence of practice, skills will rust and tarnish. All is not lost, though. I've taken it upon myself to gloss over recent less than stellar performances and shoot for the stars once again.
So I extend to you a dinner invitation. Call me, email me, join me for dinner. I cannot guarantee success, but I can promise you this, there will be passion.