It was only after we returned from our honeymoon 32 years ago, that I realized I may actually need to learn to cook.
My husband, on the other hand, was already a whiz in the kitchen. When he was eight, he was the oldest of six children, and so, learning to cook was just part of being in his family, along with troubleshooting engine problems, changing the oil in the car, installing new brakes, and rewiring every appliance in the house. My mother-in-law remembers vividly my husband at age FIVE pushing a chair up to the stove and preparing grilled cheese sandwiches for his siblings. Every chore and household activity in that family transcended age or gender. All four boys are skilled gourmet cooks to this day, even at times still out-doing each other, competing with incredible cuisine.
But I came from a family of cans and boxes. In the 1950s, when prepared foods suddenly became the rage, my domestically-challenged mother became a true believer in all that was processed and could be heated on the stovetop. Cooking, and any other domestic pursuit, was only a secondary consideration to my parents. In their eyes it was relegated to the same substandard level as playing board games, a waste of valuable time, when you could be conquering a challenging passage in a Mozart sonata or inventing something world-shaking in a laboratory. As I grew up in an era before the term “fast food” was even invented, Chef Boyardee and Betty Crocker were like family members in our kitchen. “Just add water” was about as difficult as a meal required. And you wouldn’t believe how many ways a can of Cream of Mushroom soup could be used.
And so, I began my marriage with a wild culinary adventure, starting first by utilizing Bisquick in everything from appetizers to homemade pizza. I actually now enjoy the challenge of a new recipe (see my previous posts on French cooking). Grasping a new cookbook the other day, a gift from one of my daughters, I attempted to make a loaf of artisan bread, which has eluded all my previous attempts at baking. The resulting dough looked like something that emerged out of a swamp, but I followed through and hoped for supernatural intervention. I was like a little kid, looking in the oven window, watching it carefully as the timer ticked down. The aroma transformed the kitchen into a French bakery. It even looked like a boule from a patisserie. But when we sought to slice it, Bill needed his chain saw. It was dense and so heavy I could have used it for a door stop, not quite what I had in mind. In his always-present graciousness, Bill suggested that it would make great toast in the morning.
So faced yet again with defeat, yesterday I tried again. I followed the recipe step by step, making sure my measurements were accurate. I even carried my little kitchen timer with me like I was pacing a marathon runner, marking the rising time to the minute. When the oven was ready, in my excitement I forgot to slash the top like a real artisan loaf, but I hoped for baking mercies on that account. I couldn’t even watch. When the timer beeped, I placed the rotund brown loaf on a cooling rack. To my delight, the bread rose to the occasion. And the loaf stared at me the rest of the afternoon like a Christmas present waiting to be unwrapped.
That evening for supper, we sliced the bread for sandwiches. And this child who grew up on tasteless Wonder bread made an endearing loaf, crunchy and French. “This,” my husband said, “is really good bread.” A pathetic victory, perhaps in your eyes, but for me, well, I can’t wait to do it again.
God redeems our shortcomings, multiplies our hard work in all things, and equips us for the next challenge in our journey. He uses even what seems insignificant for His glory. Even that we cannot yet see. Even what seems of little account as making a loaf of bread.
Fear not, for I am with you,
be not dismayed, for I am your God;
I will strengthen you,
I will help you,
I will uphold you with My victorious right hand.
Isaiah 40.10
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