Yesterday

I had one of those fantabulous days yesterday. My daughter came home to visit right around lunchtime, and I invited my son and daughter-in-law over to eat with us. I made chicken quesadillas and flan. Authentically Mexican food. For a daughter-in-law who is authentically Latino. And who can cook. It was something I had never tried to make before, and if you know me at all, you know that I am VERY tentative in the kitchen. I know I complain about how much I HATE to cook. And I do, seriously, but its mainly because I never learned how other than by trial and error on my own (emphasis on the word "error" here). My mother was a NON-cooker for the most part. She, bless her heart, had the ability to burn and scorch even stuff out of a can. So I feel out of my element in the kitchen. Ill-at-ease, and always vigilent for the next disaster to strike (oh and they do...they always do). But yesterday, my attempts at Mexican food turned out pretty good. Well, there was the one failed flan on Sunday night, but I got up super early and rushed out to the grocery store to buy the ingredients to try again. Monday morning's flan turned out fine.

Anyway, everybody ate, and nobody died, although I always am suspicious that people just eat my cooking out of politeness. But then, last night, we all congregated again to chat and to play cards, and they asked me....ME....the non-cooking, fearful of the kitchen woman if they could heat up the left-overs and eat again!! And that made me happy.