There's Hope for Me Yet

"The more I know, the better a wife I"ll be."
These words of wisdom from my Grannie were ringing through my head all this week while my mom was in Edmonton with my new nephew. In her absence, and bearing in mind that my more able-bodied sister Janine was working, I was given the assignment of supper-cooker during her absence. I think my mom has been waiting for this moment here whole life. Make Elena the chef so she can learn to make more than spagetti. First night of my temporary culinary duties, guess what I made? That's right, spagetti. Next night, imagine what this culinary genius pulled out of the freezer. Why yes, frozen pizza it was. You see, when you compare Neen and I's substitute chef stints, they are drastically different. Neen will pull out her archives of Martha Stuarts and concuct an original dish we've never had before, one that you'd rather take pictures of than eat. When I cook, it's more of a, rummage through the deep freeze and make something easy we eat all the time. Even so, last night, my last night to prove my chef-like abilites, after fruitless rummaging (I'd already used everything intersting in the freezer) I gingerly picked up Neen's copy of Martha Stuart Everyday Foods and nervously began skimming recipes. At fist glance I was overcome with despair. Grilled Vegetable Tostadas? What is that? Cream of Asparagus Soup? How could you make that in less than 48 hours? I put the cookbook down and looked at our peanut butter and jelly supplies. Yet, knowing that my dad would never eat just a sandwich for dinner, I gave Martha Stuart a skeptical second glance. At last I came across a recipe where I knew what all the ingredients were, and sounded feasible-pasta with pesto, potatoes, and green beans. We had pesto in the fridge, and how easy is it to boil a bunch of stuff in a pot. I felt so proud of myself. I only wish someone could of seen me, running around the kitchen chopping, stirring, and wishing things would boil a lot faster. The end results were, alright. Not fantastic, and it looked nothing like the picture, or even, asthetically pleasing in any way, shape or form, but it was food, it would suffice for supper. I did learn however, that one should measure the pasta, and not just toss in a handful. I ended with copius amounts of spagetti, which the small jar of pesto I had would not cover. It ended up tasting mostly like the potatoes, which got a little mushed by my meagre attempts to mix up the whole monstrousity.
Still, there is hope for me yet. My mother is deteremined that I must learn how to roast a chicken, and I can always bake. I actually enjoy baking. (Especially pie.) However, my stint is up, Mom's home, the master chef has returned. There will be no potato spagetti tonight.