Because I’ve come to accept it with self-deprecating acquiescence, none of my friends in Canada think I can cook.
To be honest, I couldn’t cook. Since coming to Canada, being spoilt all summer with three meals a day plus staff snack at camp, and then having been looked after regally at Michael’s house, I’d seemingly lost any culinary ability I’d possessed at home in England. When I moved into my various sublets, I’d eat at a restaurant, or eat noodles, or occasionally conjure an omelette. I was a gastronomic dunce.
Fast forward to last night’s dinner party with Zannah, Preet and Sheena. On the menu (mainly gathered from recipes on madeweekly.tumblr.com);
Sautéed cauliflower with capers
Cumin roasted carrots and chestnuts
Posh macaroni cheese with spinach and tomatoes
Quinoa with kale and beets in a balsamic dressing
I was pretty pleased with myself. Sure, the day before I’d spent half an hour peeling an avocado for a salad, only for it to be so under ripe I couldn’t even chew it. Sure, I didn’t prepare the quinoa properly and I’ve had crippling stomach pains for the last 12 hours. As far as I’m aware, everyone else is OK, and we all make mistakes. Right?
The point is, I’m cooking again, and enjoying it, and getting creative in the kitchen. A skill I thought had left me when I moved here is beginning come back, and that’s a pretty delicious prospect.