Killjoy Was Here

So I made the Pioneer Woman's beef stew with mushrooms on Sunday, and if I may liken the experience to a foot race (not too big of a stretch considering all the heart-pounding and brow-mopping required when I cook anything), it was as if I'd run the race route at a perfect pace and in perfect form and then, in reach of the finish line, I allowed myself a brief moment of relaxation, which turned out to be just long enough to completely destroy not only my concentration but control of my limbs, leaving me sprawled, post-face-plant, on the asphalt two feet from the end, just as the photographer was pressing the shutter to record my moment of triumph. In other words, not a complete failure but almost worse for the near-perfection I managed to FUBAR at the last minute (or, to be more accurate, in the last ten minutes, during which I abandoned my stovetop vigil and went to check my email. And maybe answer a few. And maybe do a little online window shopping. Hey, why does the air taste like burning?).

Actually, it was Simon who really saved the day, coming in to check on my culinary masterpiece (after I had been too quiet for too long) and turning the flame off when he found the dish not creamy and stew-like but chunky and a little black. Flustered and ashamed, my knee-jerk reaction was, "Oh, it's supposed to look like that" (said as I closed the lid of the laptop to hide the photographic evidence), and the use of the word "knee-jerk" just there is no mistake because, DUH, why can't I just admit I screwed up? He obviously knows I can't cook; I effectively remind him of it every night he's the one slaving over a hot stove while I keep my bad mojo as far away as possible lest I wither the salad greens with an accidental glance in their direction.

I think he was on to me with the stew, anyhow (although here is where you call me out on using the Internet to communicate with my spouse), considering I'd managed to magically transform a recipe that serves 12 into a recipe that serves 2.5 (gauging a serving size using normal dinner plates, not troughs).

Still, why was it so important I protect my reputation in this case and not in any of the other cases in which I manage to cook food beyond recognition? I mean, it was way less embarrassing to have compromised the integrity of this recipe, which involved actual ingredients and cooking and stuff, considering that last week I managed to burn a pot of rice pilaf--the kind that comes in a box with that gloriously vague "spice packet"--and almost destroy a saucepan too. Maybe I cared this time because I was trying so hard to do something nice? I don't know. My reasons remain as mysterious as the contents of that spice packet.

The night of the Great Pilaf Debacle (but before the Beef Stew Bomb), Simon was actually joking (but kind of not joking at all) that it would be brilliant to pitch Food Network a show called "Trying to Cook with Leah," in which I FAIL, out loud, on screen, in HD, for all to see. In mere minutes he had a virtual Powerpoint presentation of the show's format, the special appearances by guest chefs, the range of dishes I would be challenged to make, and most of all the fame and fortune and fat cash that would follow. I told him I thought it was a fun idea but not one that would ever fly for reasons that begin with my not being much of a television personality and that end with my certainty that someone else had already come up with the idea. (I tend to think someone has already come up with every idea. My motto: Why think outside the box when I can let someone else do it for me?)

The next night, of course, we saw a commercial for Food Network's Worst Cooks in America, and you could almost hear the high-pitched squeal that was the air leaking from the big balloon of Simon's hopes and dreams. He's got more than just a little of his father's get-rich-quick scheming about him, that guy, and although I know he'll protest this claim, I hope at least that it won't make him mad to have me define it in those terms because, dude, IT'S TRUE. You have your father's nose and hands and posture and wide eyes for short roads to great wealth. You get your eye color from your mother's side, but the dollar signs are all paternal.

Exhibit A: Simon's band recorded an album last month, and it's not enough for him to be proud of their work and to hope that a handful of fans will purchase copies at shows or online. No, he has to weave elaborate tapestries of the fame and fortune that will be his at last, at last!, now that he has a proper vehicle through which to be "discovered." In my world, I don't call this "dreaming big" but "setting yourself up for disappointment." We differ in this, yes, but variety is the spice packet of life, right?

Exhibit B: Simon scored a role in an indie film one of our friends is producing this summer for a festival, and he naturally forecast the opportunity to its apex scenario thus: Scene. An extravagant producer screens the film at the festival, decides Simon is the Next Big Thing, and then, before you can say "Gabourey Sidibe," we're all living in a mansion and spreading gold jelly on our English muffins.

Naturally, I can only poke fun at him about this (and gently at that) because I think it's utterly charming. Who doesn't like to fantasize now and then, right? And he so cute when it does it, the way he talks through his smile and has trouble sitting still. Besides, I'm pretty sure that we'll never get rich and/or famous following my lead, which is to lay low and try not to offend anyone, so in that way it's perfectly fine with me if he wants to keep on dreaming and scheming like he does.

Actually, sometimes I don't even mind it when I'm central to his grand plans, even when it means I'm pushed to do something I'd normally shy away from. This is why I'm entering the first chapter of My Novel into a contest for young California writers [who could really use the $2000 prize money]. Simon of course isn't content with $2000 and bragging rights but considers this merely the first rung up the ladder to blockbuster bestsellerdom. I roll my eyes and then give him a hug. My adorable Quixote.

It's good to have a dreamer and a killjoy realist in the family, though. Keeps us balanced. Also good that at least one of us can cook. Keeps us alive.

wrote Leah at 8:15 AM | Comments (13)