RSSFrom the Archives: Betty Crocker Finally Wins
Feb 16
Anti-Cooking Crusader Drawn Over to the Domestic Side
I scared myself at Wal-Mart the other night. Instead of buying makeup or a pair of shoes, I chose a Pyrex measuring cup as my reward for surviving the monthly grocery run.
Then I went home and perused cookbooks for a recipe for pork loin.
Good grief! What’s happened to me? I’m turning into … Abby Burnett!
Abby, longtime Morning News food columnist and a dear friend, is a kindred spirit, someone from whom I was obviously separated at birth. We share many of the same quirks, foibles, paranoias, passions…
Except when it comes to food. We both love to eat it, but that is where we’ve always parted company. She loves to cook it, read about cooking it, think about cooking it, talk about cooking it, collect things that have to do with cooking it. I’ve always wanted it to appear magically on my plate — and when I’m finished with it, I want the plate to hop up on its own little legs and go jump in the dishwasher. I’ve always believed the kitchen was for providing ice, not entertainment. You think men and women have trouble communicating!
Abby: “I get to interview Paul Prudhomme. You know, the Cajun chef. I actually get to taste his cooking! Isn’t that incredible?!”
Becca: “Is this like having John Cena over for dinner?”
Abby, after long pause: “No, I think it’s like having John Cena practice wrestling moves with you in your yard.”
Becca: “Oh, cool!”
Or…
Abby: “It was wonderful. I cooked, we ate, we talked about the food — you know, the different spices in it, the subtle tastes, the texture… It was just so nice to have someone to do that with. Oh, I know you don’t get it.”
Becca: “Sure I do. My sweetie laughed out loud at ‘Fraggle Rock.’”
But, oh, heaven help me when Abby gets together with another cook — my mother-in-law, for instance. Then the conversation inevitably turns to the merits of various spring-form pans, the secrets of perfect stuffed mushrooms or whether to use a water bath for baking dessert, and soon I find myself sitting in the corner, rocking autistically and wondering if the NCAA will ever change the possession rule on defensive tie-ups.
When I was Lifestyles editor, recipes were my greatest challenge. A typo like 4 tablespoons of salt didn’t faze me. What did I know? Someone once asked me how I could do that job if I couldn’t cook. And although the smart-aleck answer about covering gay issues without being a lesbian shut her up, it did give me pause. Perhaps I had taken a wrong turn on the road to womanhood…
My mother was always a terrific cook — nothing fancy, just what she calls “food food,” roast pork, mashed potatoes, cherry cobbler. It’s not that I couldn’t have learned.
I just had no interest. Cooking was for women who intended to stay at home and also learn to sew. I was going to be a great actress — or at least a great drama teacher — and would live on caffeine and coffee cake, thank you very much.
When that plan fell through, I married Dan. He wooed me with crepes and London broil, and it was love at first bite. I almost never cooked — and when I did, he wasn’t very impressed. This is the first time in my whole life I’ve had my own kitchen — a place where I can experiment, make a mess and clean it up myself, all without anyone helping me do it. Sure, I have a tiny stove, an even tinier microwave and about 3 square feet of countertop, but it’s mine, all mine. And I have someone wonderful to cook for — someone who is impressed when I get the chili right!
So imagine Abby’s surprise when I called her to report I’d successfully made up a recipe for that pork loin. She couldn’t have been any more shocked than I was — but the old adage is true. When it’s just you against Betty Crocker, in the squared circle of the kitchen, eventually Betty will win.