In my restless 30s, I fancied myself to be a kitchen goddess. Blame it on an overdose of Jude Law and Music from Another Room, but I had romantic visions of me slaving away in a small bakeshop with huge display windows. I wanted to bake fancy cakes, make truffles, cook up a feast.
For a time, I did good on the baking part. I took lessons, tested recipes, basked in the wonderful scents of cinnamon and vanilla. In those blissfully unattached times, I realized that I could figure out the science that went into a thousand pan de sal, but I could not come to terms with the intangibles, love and commitment included.
But then, baking became a business and the novelty wore off. I moved on to the cooking part for either one of two then very pressing reasons: (1) in anticipation of the days when I would have to cook for myself OR (2) to impress future attachments, in-laws most of all.
Today, my cookbooks are gathering dust. The day I got married was the day I kissed my kitchen-goddess aspirations goodbye. The husband is decidedly the better cook, and from Day One he made it clear that the kitchen was his and his alone. There was no room for another cook; not even for an apprentice. I have since been banished, and I can't say that I am complaining.
My sister, who has recently been raving about squash soups and santoku knives, continues to stoke my interest with her "gourmet" reading fare. In my past life, I would have gobbled up titles like Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant; The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen; The Art of Simple Food. Who knows, I might just have time for them again. For now, though, I am happy being the kitchen god's wife. :p