Chocolate Scrambled Eggs and Zucchini Pancakes

Bowls and spoons had been strewn across the counter tops.  Eric’s (8) face was streaked with flour.  Emily (5) was sucking pancake batter off her hands.  Beth (3) had syrup dripping from her nose.  The kids had been “helping” me make pancakes.  It would take me all morning to clean the mess. 

I sighed as I surveyed the scene.  I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to make pancakes from scratch.  Next time, I resolved, we’d just go out for breakfast.

I am not a good cook.  In fact, I would go so far as to say my culinary skills are slightly less than mediocre.  Case in point – There was the time I made scrambled eggs using chocolate milk. A little hint, don’t try it.  You will be disappointed.  Then there was the time I misread the recipe and added two cups, instead of two teaspoons of salt, to cupcake batter.  Let’s just say they made a better salt lick than a dessert.

Given my genealogy, making a meal should not be a challenge.  After all, I come from a long line of fabulous cooks. Take my Nana.  She could cook anything.  Every Sunday the entire family would gather for an enormous meal.  We’d feast on stuffed chickens, pot roasts, and hearty beef stews.  And Nana always served a homemade pie or cake to top off the meal.

Mom and Dad were both superior cooks as well.  Dad makes the best French toast this side of Paris.  It’s crispy, with the perfect amount of saltiness mixed with sweet.  My mouth waters when I think about it.  And after working a full day, Mom could breeze into the kitchen and concoct a hearty feast using nothing but canned peas and Jimmy Dean sausage. 

Theresa and Tina are great cooks too.  Recently, Tina created a zucchini pancake.  She basically took a recipe for potato pancakes and modified it using zucchini.  The dish was so good that I still wake up at night thinking about it.  And Theresa is famous for her clam chowder.  So I can’t say that the cooking genes skipped a generation.  It appears that they just skipped me.

My culinary failure is not from lack of trying.  When Ken and I were first married, I would buy the ingredients.  I’d read the recipes.  I’d spend hours in the kitchen stirring and stewing.  But nothing I cooked ever turned out quiet right. 

One of my main problems, I have concluded, relates to attention.  No matter what the recipe, not matter what the dish, I am guaranteed to be distracted at a crucial point in the process.  The phone will ring in the middle of the mix and then I can’t remember if I already added a cup of water or still need one more.  Then before you can say Betty Crocker, what you thought was a cake turns into batter soup. 

The other issue that plagues me is spillage.  It’s almost a guarantee that when I step up to the prep station something will be spilled.  And, according to Murphy’s Law, the thing that will be spilled is guaranteed to either stain or stick or both.  I never knock over the half cup of water.  But put grape syrup in front of me and you can bet dollars to donuts that it will end up on my blouse.

Being that I am such an inferior cook, you might be surprised to learn that I spend a lot of time watching The Food Network.  As Rachel Ray twirls about the set, I marvel at her spectacular food creations.  The site of Emril kicking it up with a dash of cumin amazes me.  And I’m always impressed at the cleanliness, and quiet, in the kitchens. 

A couple of years ago, I had an idea for a food network show.  Bobby Flay would come to my house and, in less than an hour, cook a four course, healthy meal for five using only the ingredients in my pantry.  Little hint there Bobby, you won’t find saffron or lemon grass in my kitchen. 

Bobby would need to prepare the meal with Beth clinging to his leg.  At the same time, Emily would be screaming, “I want a glass of water!”  Eric would be asking Bobby where he put his hockey jersey.  The final evil twist in the show would be that Bobby would need to convince all three children to eat their vegetables before they could have dessert.

Now that would be reality TV that I could sink my teeth into.