Your Presence is Requested

Since I finished my six-week cooking course, I’ve been thinking about inviting a fearless adventurer {I mean guest} to sample my newly acquired culinary skills. I thought of the only person who would eat it even if he didn’t like it. Who would tell me it was great no matter how bad it tasted. 

My dad. 

He thinks everything I do is top-notch. He thinks I should be the president and CEO {of something}. I knew he would certainly applaud my chef-ish endeavors.   

But when I told him I wanted to cook for him, he vehemently protested saying it was too much trouble. Until I said I just wanted to practice and all I really needed was his presence. 

I wanted to try out my new grill pan so I planned a menu of chicken with a side of pasta and fresh tomato sauce, cheesy biscuits and tossed garden salad.

I pulled out my new ceramic chef’s knife {a gift from a friend} and chopped up the tomatoes and onions. I remembered a few of the techniques I’d learned and oh, what a difference a sharp knife made! I had them diced in no time. 

In my cooking class, the chef told us to toss an onion, a few tomatoes, some spices and garlic in a pot, and in 20 minutes we’d have fresh tomato sauce. But I think I must have missed something crucial in the recipe because my sauce wasn’t anywhere close to tasting delicious, even after 30 minutes.

I put the chicken on the grill pan, but after a few minutes it started to sizzle and smoke. 

I put the biscuits in the oven, but promptly forgot about them in my efforts to snuff out the smoking chicken.

Then my smoke alarm went off. As my dad silently eyed the chaos in my kitchen, I took the chicken off the stove and shoved it into the oven, too.

My ambitions of dishing up delectable cuisine went up in a puff of smoke. {More like billows of smoke, actually.} 

When I realized the chicken wasn’t going to be completely edible for a while, I just sliced off the cooked-through ends and put them on my dad’s plate. 

{I was hoping he couldn't detect raw chicken through all the smoke anyway, although he seems to have a sixth sense about under-done meat.} 

In the end, the only part of the meal that was truly tasty was the pre-made salad I bought at the grocery store. 

Maybe if I cooked for myself every night my skills would improve, but that’s not really why I wanted to learn how to cook. I was hoping to serve up some culinary goodness while savoring the presence of my friends and family.

My dad and I eventually sat down to dinner. The chicken wasn’t finished, the tomato sauce tasted terrible and the biscuits were burned. 

My dad graciously ate it though, and declared it good. 

But I know that it wasn’t. 

Maybe cooking's not my gig. I eat mostly salads in my single-girl kitchen anyway. 

Or maybe I just need more diners to practice on. 

Anyone care to swing by for a bite to eat? I'd be honored by your presence.

But you might want to BYOD {bring your own dinner} because I'm still airing out my kitchen.

I’ll take care of the salad.

Grace. Love. Hospitality. Family. What word has God put on your heart this year? 

Check out the new Letterpress blocks by (in)courage at incourage.me/letterpress.

I'm linking up with my friends at Holley Gerth's place at Coffee for Your Heart. Join me there for more encouragement!