I am not a particularly good cook. In fact, I am a pathetic cook because I have no interest in cooking except for the simple act of putting food on the table. I can usually follow a recipe, but there’s no guarantee that the finished product will look or taste as presented.

To diagnose the problem I must go back to my teens when my mom insisted I learn to cook. She’d make me stand next to her and watch every move she made. It was incredibly boring. It frustrated me because I needed to study. If I didn’t earn perfect grades, I’d be severely punished. Because of this I’d stand next to my mom, pretending to pay attention, with my eyes glued to an open textbook.

Because I wasn’t paying attention, when I was told to replicate her concoctions, I couldn’t. My mom cooked from memory, not from books. Unless she wrote it down, there was no way I could reproduce the item. The few times she recorded her recipes, she often left out an ingredient or a crucial step.

One year when my kids were still young, my family decided that my husband and I would host Thanksgiving dinner. My husband is a good cook, so he took charge of the turkey, gravy and mashed potatoes, leaving me to handle the rest. I pulled out every cookbook I owned to find recipes for dressing, green beans, pumpkin and mince meat pies. I chose the easiest options.

Because we started early, things were in the oven or cooking on the stove when my family arrived. It was almost as if they had met out on the street somewhere, worked out the parking logistics, then swooped into our house as a unit.

They brought nothing to share. The assumption had been that even though we were the lowest income earners in the family, we would provide every morsel of food.

They were hungry when they arrived. Fourteen starving people crowded into our house. Fortunately, we had set out plates of cheese and crackers on the table which kept the kids happy and held the adults at bay while they downed mixed drinks. Some of them gathered in small groups while those of us who weren’t part of that group were alone with our thoughts.

The kids sat on the floor of the family room playing with the toys we’d left out. At least one of my brother’s kids got bored and snuck down the hall and into our sons’ bedroom. When laughter erupted, I saw, with dismay, that the daughters were taking turns spinning our hamsters around on the floor. Their legs are tiny and not meant for such abuse. They make noise, but this one didn’t. Perhaps it was too terrified to do so.

By the time I saved it, the poor thing had two broken legs. It died later that night.

After they were denied the fun of torturing a defenseless animal, the daughters lost interest in pretending to be friends with my kids. They moaned to their parents about nothing to do or complained about being hungry or sat on the couch doing nothing.

Despite our careful timing, the early arrival of my family had thrown everything into chaos and confusion. There was about thirty minutes to go before the turkey would be done, the gravy made, the potatoes mashed and the green bean casserole baked.

My family had arrived with a preconceived notion of when the meal would be served: promptly at five o’clock. We were not meeting that deadline, which meant we were in trouble.

The food I’d put together looked okay, but what if my concoctions didn’t meet their approval? What if the green beans were soggy or the mashed potatoes lumpy?

What if we ran out of wine? What if a dish broke and the beans were ruined? My mind took me down the list of possibilities, but I never could have imagined what happened next.

The power went out. One moment the stove was working, the next it wasn’t. Was the turkey done? The beans? Potatoes? Everything appeared to be mostly done, but what if it wasn’t? You can eat the side dishes even if they aren’t quite finished, but you can’t serve an undercooked turkey.

My husband joked about the situation, but no one else seemed to find it funny. Tensions rose as we waited for the power to return, but after thirty minutes passed it was obvious that it wasn’t happening. My dad and brother offered sarcasm, as if we had arranged to have someone switch the power off.

My husband is a calm, easy-going man. He is also an experienced cook for Scout camps. He moved the barbeque into the backyard and lit the coals. When the fire was ready, he carried the turkey outside, closed the lid, and walked away, confident that all would be fine. The rest of the meal went into the still-warm oven.

The family grew increasingly impatient, frustrated and hungry. They had allotted only a certain amount of time to be at our home and that time was ending. Either food would be served or they would go find a restaurant somewhere. The options were not politely phrased.

I hung out in the kitchen pretending that things were under control. Mike monitored the turkey, which meant he was outside much of the time, leaving me inside bearing the brunt of the criticism.

When the turkey was finally done, I breathed a tiny sigh of relief. As Mike served the meat on a platter, I pulled everything out of the oven and placed it on the table.

People sat. Grace was said. The food wasn’t hot, but it was edible. As they ate, tempers settled and peace entered the house. People left.

Just as we rinsed off last of the dishes the power returned.  

After everyone had left, Mike helped me understand that things had worked out despite my nervousness and fears. After all, food had been served. No one left hungry unless by choice.

That Thanksgiving occurred over forty years ago, but it left an indelible mark. Never again, I told myself, would I host a family gathering.

Little did I know that when my mother-in-law died several years later that my husband’s family would choose my home for a brunch. For sixty people. As plans were being made, I announced that I would take care of paper goods and plastic utensils, but that was it. The family would have to purchase and prepare every dish and do the cleaning up afterwards.

Guess what? I held to my pronouncement. When cooking was happening, I stayed out of the kitchen. I picked up no dirty dishes, washed not a single thing, refilled no snack bowls and did not monitor the ice chest. I found myself a quiet place away from the crowds and stayed there for the five hours that people were in my home.

It’s amazing how that one failure years ago ruined my pleasure of having folks over for a meal. Even though the power going out was not my fault, blame had been laid at my feet.

It’s amazing how liberating it is to refuse, to loudly proclaim that I would not be in charge. If only I had applied that motto to other areas in my life, things might have been different. But that’s another story for another time.