I Know Why My Mom Can't Cook--Laura Pilloni

Yeah hun, I’m not crazy about your mom’s cooking. I stared at him. I suppose I had basically given Justin permission to offer such a comment. I gave him the green light every time I called my mom a bitch, or enumerated her faults—my personal declaration of independence. Still I felt embarrassed about what he’d said. Not for my mom’s sake but for mine.

Of course he would know what respectable cuisine was like being fed Marie’s savory, healthy and completely made from scratch dishes his entire life…We don’t go to restaurants. Mom can make all types of international meals herself…I remember the story of a Haitian dish called Akra de Malanga Marie had prepared. It was so exquisite that a five year-old Justin told her, “that was good chicken,” only to find out through the family’s snickers that the entire meal was made of black eyed peas, a vegetable called malanga and green peppers. Although his family brings this story up to embarrass Justin even now, over fifteen years later, what the story’s retelling really does is praise Marie’s rewarding culinary feats.

Maybe it’s because I’m a woman, but I had to assure Justin that that at least someone in my family could cook. I mentioned my dad as the memories of the spicy Chuletas con Chile Verde came to mind. Every visit to Dad’s was a guaranteed flavorful dining experience. He is one of the best cooks I know, better than my aunt and I dare say, equal to my Abuela whose famous Carnes en su Jugo I crave every time I see a lime.

I guess it’s her fault. Her great cooking made Dad’s taste buds as refined as Justin’s mom’s made his so that he just knows what ingredients go well with each other. What did this mean? Will Justin be the cook in our family when we get married like my dad was when my mom and him were married? I guess we’re headed there anyway considering all I can make are omelets with pre-shredded cheddar cheese.

I know why my mom can’t cook save for the generic mac-and-cheese from the box and spaghetti with Ragu sauce. Her own mother would never teach her. That’s because her mother never cared. My mom was forced to work; babysitting children (as a child herself), then cleaning other’s homes (though she hardly had one herself) and then as a nanny in a different country called the U.S.A. all to help support the tiny but poor family that consisted of her mom, herself and her younger sister. Before my mom was exiled and away from the only family she knew all she did was go to school, work, and sleep. No time for homework or hugs, let alone cooking lessons.

Maybe there is the missing ingredient in the piquancy of my mom’s food. Maybe there is a lack of whatever my Abuela gave my dad, and didn’t give my aunt enough of. My mom was never told this secret, it was never passed on, she can never make a dish as lovely as Justin’s mom’s or my dad’s or my Abuela’s.

I wasn’t given it either. Not by mom and not by anyone else (not even my dad who hardly has the time). When I am a mom I will surely fail as a cook. And maybe one day my daughter’s hatred towards me will allow for a comment from her boyfriend regarding the fact that he isn’t crazy about my cooking.