Why is it that a woman is expected to morph into some Julia Child-Martha Stuart wannabe as soon as she has a ring on her finger and/or stretch marks on her belly? I hate to break it to you but a wedding ring is not a magical object that will instantly transform a sloppy college co-ed into a domestic goddess. If a woman is not an expert cook before she got married and/or procreated, she certainly will not have time to become one afterwards.
Yet despite the best efforts of woman’s lib, society still puts pressure on women to be expert housekeepers, proficient in interior design and, most of all, master chef’s in the kitchen. If this is the standard by which wives and mothers are judged than I am just one big epic fail. I would rather throw out clothing that try to get a stain out. All the walls in my house are beige because I cannot commit to any other color. And I have no idea what the fuck a shallot is.
Mostly I blame parenting magazines and Gwyneth Paltrow for my feelings of inadequacy. The former because they are designed to make you feel inadequate and the latter because she is freaking Supermom, sent to earth from a distant planet where cellulite does not exist and the inhabitants never require sleep. Seriously, this woman is an actress, singer, wife, mother, and now, apparently an expert chef as well. Come on Gwyn, are you seriously telling me that you come home from rockin with Cee Lo at the Grammy’s, strap on an apron and cook for two hours? This is unbelievable for two reasons: one, you are too damn stylish to be caught wearing an apron; and two -look at you – do you really expect us to believe that you actually eat??
But enough about Supermom. I am just a regular cellulite-ridden, sleep-deprived mom who has no ability or inclination to learn to cook things she can’t pronounce. I simply do not enjoy spending my time handling raw meat, chopping veggies or burning things, (which is usually the end result of my cooking exploits). I am of the microwave generation – if it takes more than 5 minutes to cook, it ain’t worth it.
The worst part of all this is that I thought I had finally found an answer to my dilemma. I was reading a parenting magazine (which was my first bad decision) and I came across an article about a mom who hated cooking – she was no good at it, had no time for it and nobody wanted to eat what she cooked anyway. So what did she do to solve her dilemma? Buy a certain cook book? Take cooking lessons? Start taking a new miracle drug that is proven to cure bad cooking? Nope. This rich bitch mommy had the balls to tell me that the best thing she ever did was hire a cook. Craptastic. Now not only do I feel like a rotten cook, I feel poor too.
I guess what I have come to realize is that I just have to accept that I am a shitacular cook. If you come to a dinner party at my house you will get some Cheez Whiz stuffed in a mushroom and some dry chicken. And yes, the majority of the dinner will be prepared in the microwave. But this does not make me a crappy mom. My kids still eat their broccoli even if it is not served au gratin. Surprisingly, food does not have to taste amazing or be fancy in order to be nutritious.
So chew on that Gwyneth. I may not be as pretty as you or as talented as you or as rich as you ...where was I going with this again? Oh yeah - I am still an awesome mom. A good cook does not a good mom make. But I may still buy your cookbook just in case.