How this Girl came to Be

 “I’ll just marry a guy who knows how to cook!” I scream as I slam my bedroom door behind me.

I rumble through my backpack to find the half eaten bagel from that days’ lunch. The rubbery chew of the bread makes my jaw pinch, the butter, which was once warm and unctuous is now congealed and stale.

I turn on the television and raise the volume. 

Me? Cook? I’m a psych major! I don’t need this! The brain is my work. 

I cracked open my text book and thumbed through the pages, and in the mean time I’ll flip on the laptop to take notes.

A rap on the door.

“Hey,” dad said.

“Ya,” my reply.

“What’s with the attitude? Is it bad that we ask you to help?”

I knew the answer, and the answer was no. Being 18 and a university student, to get by,  I lived on street food, cheap coffee and at times whatever sloppy left-overs were in the fridge. The strap of my backpack was threaded and one of the small pockets with the zipper was permanently un-zipped because the pull-tab had broken off. My life is difficult, I’m in chronic frustration due to the workload, the exams, the papers, maybe I have a stress disorder? Yes, first rule of psychology, don’t diagnose yourself.

“Okay, I know but with what time, dad? I’m not going to ‘slave’ away at dinner.  That’s just stupid!”

Dad, after I had reached a certain age, stopped entering my room passed the doorway.  Not sure why, I didn’t have crazy posters of boys or an overly girly room. It was just my stuff.  But nevertheless, he stood there at the door while I slumped over textbooks and notepads in my dark room.

“Look, your mom and I work. We aren’t asking you to quit school to help out, but you can’t do ‘nothing’ around here either,” he pointed out.

I can hear mom slamming cupboard doors, muttering out loud.  Loud enough for me to know she was muttering about me, but not loud enough for me to really decipher what she was saying.

“Okay, let’s make a deal,”

He better start by saying I’ll buy you a new car, if... I thought to myself.

“Cook whatever you want,” still standing at the threshold of my room and the outside world that was the household where the rules change in favour of the elders. Where I, master of my OWN universe, am no longer master.

“What do you mean ‘whatever you want?’ You mean, if I want to cook lasagna every night, I can?”

His nose curled, “Well, kind of like that. But what I mean is, cook something. Anything! Whatever it is, we will eat it. Just as long as you cook and you feel happy about doing it.”

Huh.  Okay.

“Think about it,”

The door shuts.

45 minutes later, the door swings open again.

“Come. Eat. Dinner is done.” She says in her short and curt tone.

I grab my plate and saunter back to my room.

As I eat my dinner (which was delicious by the way) I contemplated the offer.  It’s not like I had the option to refuse.  But now the doors were open.  If I cook whatever I want, literally, and they have no choice but to eat it, this could be the ultimate deal. Things started looking up. It was in my favour.  Prior to this proposal, I had always been dragged kicking and screaming into the kitchen.  Peeling potatoes, mincing garlic and ginger, cutting up okra, or dicing squash.  The labour-intensive stuff that I not only hated doing, but hated eating too.

I’m 18. I don’t think too much about eating. At this stage in my life, food was a nuisance. It got in the way of my very busy schedule of travelling to university, boys, studying, late night cram sessions in the library, boys, part time job at the mall, boy and somehow managing to have a semi-normal social life.  I spent the summer busting by butt saving to 'hopefully' buy my first car, and paying off my tuition.  I don’t even remember what I ate for breakfast today…oh yeah, I didn’t eat breakfast.

However, it’s not like I don’t like food.  Just don’t have a moment to appreciate it.  

So now that the ball is in my court, let’s push the envelope. I had been watching the late night cooking shows on the food channel. I'm sure I could do some of that stuff.  I've watched mom cook her soups, curries and stews over and over again. 

I slept belly full that night.  Woke up the next day and made my trek to school.  It was a short day on campus, 2 hour lecture on Biopsychology, 1.5 hour gap and then another 2 hour lecture on Literature & Creative Writing.  I think I can get the 3:10 pm bus home.

I unlocked the front door to our apartment, the flat was quiet.  Oreo popped her furry head out from under the coffee table.  

I walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and there sat a whole chicken. I looked up at the clock, it read 4:35 pm.  Here goes nothing...

And so it begins.  A Girl who Likes to Cook.