It is the spider season, a short period of time squeezed in between the dwindling days of summer and the emerging weeks before the holidays. I am more taken with these creatures than I have been in the past, as I now oddly identify with their industrious busyness. That said, I prefer arachnids to be outdoor residents, not indoor inhabitants. Fortunately, I do not see a lot of spiders inside my house. But three days ago, I noticed an intricate web on a kitchen shelf, the one that contains my cookbooks.
The symbolism was not lost on me. I am not a gourmet cook, nor even a proficient one. I possess a minimally adequate palate, one that recognizes delicious fare, but I am at a loss when it comes to food preparation. I am humbled by my friends who can flit around a kitchen, adroitly whipping up culinary delights while sipping a glass of crisp, white wine and never missing a conversational beat. I would rather prepare for trial than host a dinner party. And to be clear: I despise getting ready for trial.
There was a time in my life when emergent cooking skills simmered. As a newlywed, my husband and I began our after-work hours standing around the small but functional kitchen in our cozy, two-bedroom rambler. The conversation revolved around what to concoct for dinner while we savored the highlights of the day and a cold drink. Trips to the grocery store almost every night were the norm.
All that changed when I started law school and devoted almost every waking moment to attending class or reading endless case law studies. Welcoming a baby in my third year of law school eliminated any pretense of fixing fancy fare. It was full-on survival mode, decades before meal delivery services existed even if we had the budget to contemplate that.
When my children were young, I had a vestigial understanding that nutrition was important for youthful minds and bodies, and I vigorously chopped fresh fruits and veggies for snacks. On pizza nights, I threw together a green salad to ease my conscience; well, unless the pizza was topped with green pepper and mushrooms, in which case I called it good.
My sons complained that I was not a “Costco Mom,” one who bought bountiful bags and boxes of snacks and frozen delights. Our pantry contained a lame assortment of pasta, crackers, and dry cereal. The canned goods were approximately equal parts soup and wet dog food.
I used home-cooked meals as an inducement, hoping that rambunctious boys would stop torturing each other if I wooed them to the table with a spaghetti dinner. Once, in a fit of sovereignty, I threatened to substitute Top Ramen at the kitchen counter for nourishing fare that required a lot of work. My ultimatum was met with silence -- until middle son Andy happily replied that he liked Top Ramen at the counter. That was the end of my naïve belief that my epicurean skills could alter my kids’ behavior.
When my children left home, I had time to improve my culinary skills, but something always seemed to get in the way. I was briefly infatuated with Blue Apron delivery, as it allowed me to eat delicious meals without requiring me to grocery shop. But preparing the subscription-mandated two meals a week became just another obligation I should be doing when I wanted to be doing something else. It got in the way of watching television to see if that nice couple was going to love it or list it, or, more importantly, downloading and learning how to use the Uber Eats app.
I still occasionally and wistfully daydream about effortlessly churning out meals of creative full-flavored delights, chockful of farmer’s market vegetables, fresh, wild-caught salmon, and crusty, home-baked bread. But I have decided that my efforts are better spent befriending those with proficiencies I will never possess, which means my husband and I are free for dinner pretty much any time.
I will bear flowers, a bottle of wine, and a robust appetite. I will even bring a side dish, so long as I can buy it fully prepared from the local grocery store.