To admit it, I never rushed to cook. As a kid, I wasn’t one to enjoy spending time with my mother in the kitchen, helping her bake cookies, for example, and wanting to be an exemplary housewife one day. Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I stayed away from the kitchen. It wasn’t my discipline, and when my mother wasn’t cooking, I wasn’t eating. So she always cooked, but if she forgot, we would die at home. I come from a family of notorious non-cook men. My grandfather no longer cooked. He couldn’t do it. But of course, it was still old school. In his generation, it was unthinkable for men to cook. A generation of his men hunted and cooked outdoors. Next in line for raw men was my dad. I really don’t think he can cook. That you put raw meat in front of him, tell him “cook”, and he curls up on the ground in a ball, scratches his finger on his lips and goes “brm, brm”, after which he starves or eats raw meat after a few hours and a few days. But in order not to hurt him, my father can cook a meal. Eggs with dumplings. Disgusting business, but he likes it.
I remember when I was a child, my mother went somewhere on a business trip. My father was tasked with keeping my brother and me alive by heating the food my mother cooked in the microwave. We recklessly ate the food prepared by my mother the next day, so it was time for the dumpling eggs. “Dad, what’s for lunch?” “Eggs with dumplings.” “Dad, what’s for dinner?” “Eggs with dumplings.” I couldn’t smell the porridge anymore. Its god I had eggs with dumplings even at school for snacks. Among friends who enjoyed a break with bread or greased bread during the break, I felt like a pure sock. As I was told, dumplings are food for the poor. My tea party aroused only compassion and regret among my classmates.
The situation got so bad that nothing could be done and I had to call my mother’s maid from a landline when my father was still cooking us dumplings and my brother and I were hungry and that he would come. Fortunately, the grandmother who came to cook was called to our house. However, her proud father did not recognize her cooking, and he himself loaded eggs with dumplings. I think he had a lot of fun, but it was an honor, and I have to admit, I respect him for that. To not dodge and to persevere. And then it was my turn to proudly carry the torch of male non-welders in the family. In the beginning, everything indicated that I would succeed in my family heritage. In college, I didn’t cook in college. So I didn’t even have the money for the raw materials, because I spent all the money on the dorm on Monday night, so I then scrubbed the misery out of the need at the end of the week. However, there are already indications that I will be the black sheep of the family. As I didn’t even have the money for the canteen, I had to eat alone, and very cheaply. I started with spaghetti with cheese without ketchup, then moved on to spaghetti without cheese and without ketchup. I didn’t even have the cheese anymore. Again and again I was a case of eyelid collection. However, my classmates were similar, so there was no one to feel sorry for me. Suffering from severe malnutrition, I successfully completed college with two recipes for guaranteed quality food. So spaghetti with nothing and then bread with maggi. It is the liquid spice for the soup. I found it to be relatively inexpensive, last a long time, and taste great. The bread drizzled with maggi is so reminiscent of beef broth, for example. Very remote. Actually not at all. In fact, it’s disgusting, but so what? After college, I became independent and found a job. I lived alone and went to work a short distance from my parents.
Here I have reached the age where one might assume that I will cook here and there, but I should not go to work near my mother’s kitchen. I went to our house for lunch at work, because when my mom made lunches for my dad, she just did more to dominate Dominiček. I also went to our dinner after work, because I parked my car in their yard, and how rude I would be if I didn’t stop by my mom’s when I was walking, he didn’t bring her laundry to wash because I don’t have a washing machine and I don’t have it with her, I can’t, and at the same time I denied her the opportunity and the privilege to cook me dinner. This is how it was with me for a while before I met my current wife and fucked her due to several circumstances. Before the birth of my son, I kept to the imposed rhythm of my parents’ diet. But there was a shock after the birth. The wife went back to work and I stayed home with my baby. It was no longer possible to go eat with my mother. Well, it worked, but pride wouldn’t let me because now that I was a parent myself, so I had to learn how to behave accordingly. So, dear children, I started cooking. So far I’ve skipped the sirloin or similar atrocities and started slow. I toyed with the idea of using what was already at home for a while, but eventually evaluated this breastmilk feed, which the wife squirted (or milked?. I was pretty good at making pasta with Milanese sauce and meat. I was a master at this. The trick was to cook pasta and open a purchased glass with Milanese sauce and meat. Little by little, I started grating cheese for it, which was an unprecedented performance in my time. Of course, it wasn’t just that, and my cooking skills grew day by day. Letter soup of a bag, canned stew or sausages. There was nothing I couldn’t buy and then heat in the microwave or in a pan. As my son grew, my wife, but also my pediatrician, my nutrition advisor and de facto anyone in their right mind told me that I couldn’t feed him bluffs in co nserve. There was nothing to do and I had to move a bit more as a chef. I was given lots of cookbooks and instructions on how to cook, and in the end I was able to fry chicken in a pan and cook rice. It was an incredible feat. And then it worked. A lot of water has passed since then and I can say without false modesty that I am a relatively talented chef. I can make sirloin steak. Yes. It’s like that. I can make sirloin steak. It’s not that hard. I can do many things. I literally pour recipe after recipe. So much for my ability to cook. But now we turn to the ability to feed the family. It’s nice that I can cook sirloin, but somehow it sucks, because no one eats sirloin at home. Just me. There’s a bunch of ingrates at home. I don’t eat anything, my wife doesn’t eat anything and my baby doesn’t eat anything. Thus, the child eats almost nothing. When it all adds up and there is an intersection of what is ready to eat at home, I get about three meals. And they can’t be eaten forever.
And I happen to cook three different dinners. One for me, one for a woman and one for a child. The worst thing is that then the son, when he sees my food, doesn’t want it and asks for mine. Of course I don’t want to give it to him, because I don’t like his food, but the woman’s evil look in my direction, accompanied by scorn: “So you’re giving the food to the child, right? not ? ” Always confirms that I have a ruined dinner. Cooking for a child is then, of course, a separate chapter. He does not like anything. He does not eat sauces, so he only eats dry meat with dumplings, after which he does not eat this meat and finally declares that he does not even want the dumpling, because it is supposed to be too dry. On my accusations, let him eat with a sauce that he will not then dry out, substitute that the sauce does not eat. For a chef of my caliber it is quite a daunting affair and I often succumb to vanity. The worst part is that I already suspect during the cooking that the guy is no longer going to to eat.
Before cooking, I will offer her food options to choose from. I drop fabric softener or pizza from the table early on, so he has to choose from the homemade diet. After careful consideration, he finally chooses. “And you’re going to eat it, aren’t you?” ” I assure myself. “I will do it.” With the information that it will be eaten, the cooking process begins. As soon as I cut the meat, I wonder if I went the right way. If he really wants to eat it. “He certainly won’t eat anymore,” the anxious voice echoes in my head, and with that motivation, the necessary love and enthusiasm are misplaced in the kitchen. “No, he certainly won’t eat it. I work here in the kitchen and the sweet-tongued lover doesn’t even touch it,” I think as I peel the potatoes. “It just came to our knowledge at the time. He puts everything in it, it costs a lot of money and he won’t even touch it,” it goes through my head as I dirty the water on the potatoes. “I’m just a slave. Nothing else. Besides, he’s a useless slave, because it’s going to be weird for him again, tasteless or whatever. After cooking dinner, I shamelessly tell the kid that he’s spoiled and I’ve had enough and let him delete in the room that I don’t need him. Maybe an overreaction considering my son didn’t even get a chance to taste the food, but the experience taught me so much, and on top of that, I composed myself so much that I couldn’t to prevent me from. People with experience without children often advise that a child just eat what is on the table, otherwise he is out of luck. These life-tested children (or even children whose children eat everything) often have such strong words, but I just can’t help but feed the child. This is the basic instinct of a parent. Feed the baby. This basic instinct is an emanation from the central parental instinct and thus keeps the child alive. If I don’t feed the baby, I won’t keep it alive for very long. Driven by my parents instinct and not to go to jail for my starving child, so when I’m cold I cook something different for my son. But let’s say we live in wonderful times. At a time of Internet expansion and especially at a time of food imports. Maybe over the years I’ve been able to cook a lot of food, but I just don’t have the guts for it all. Today, we no longer have to cook three different meals and then four others, because the original child does not like it. Not at all. Today, we open the Internet, click on ten different dishes from the restaurant, and take it home. Sure, it’s more expensive, but I think my nerves are worth the price.