domestic goddess

Of all the things I could do at home, I learnt cooking. Discreetly, so that people won’t actually notice. I’d sort of creep up behind my mom’s shoulder to see how much garlic she put in. On my way to the living room, I’d say “hi mom”, and cast a casual glance at her chopping board to see in which direction she cuts up the pumpkin. I’ve actually discovered that the amount of ingredients you put in has to be an odd number. 5 shallots, 9 garlic, and so on. But I’m not ready to succumb to superstition just yet. So a guest stopped by the other day, my aunt, for tea. Mom, out of the blue, suddenly asked me to cook up some Chinese green noodles for the guest. Shit, I thought. She either found me out and wants to put me to the test, or is just being plain mischievous. Poker-faced, I set about with the utensils like I’ve cooked Chinese noodles all my life. Boiled first, drained, then fried with a bit of garlic and soy sauce. Chicken slices for flair. Piece of cake. As the garlic started to emanate its amazing aroma from the bottom of the frying pan, I remembered I was reading something in my laptop which was far too interesting to be interrupted. I just had to check out that last sentence, just to make sure. Having satisfied my curiosity, I came back to the kitchen, where the garlic had turned brown, and its formerly heavenly, confidence-building aroma now had a slightly burnt tinge to it. The smell of failure. Still poker-faced, I threw out the burnt garlic, leaving the few remaining pieces of still-white ones, and delegated the task to mom, who was happy to take over. It turned out pretty okay, judging by the aunt’s polite ooh’s and aah’s. In retrospect, maybe I should’ve put in three cloves of garlic, instead of two.