The Joy of Cooking

I am very proud of myself.
I have accomplished the (almost) impossible.
I am cooking.  And I am cooking well.
And not "well" in the sense that  no one has gotten sick, but actually "good".  
"Good", like the food tastes good.

I am very proud of myself.  Barry is also very proud.

Among the different recipes I have tried these two have been my favourites.

Korean Bulgogi Beef (and I added garlic sauteed sugar snap peas)

Chicken Tortilla Soup 

If you ask Barry, I have come a long way with my cooking.  A very long way.
I laugh when I think of all the disasterous escapades in attempting to cook:
- My famous "foot" pasta.  It really tasted like a foot.  Burnt gorganzola  = Foot
- Pushing mashed potatoes through a cheese grater, in attempts to make them "creamy and smooth"
And my personal favourite,
- Burnt chicken ala Kristina.  Real burnt. Unsalvagable. Pan was ruined.  I cried.

But I guess my cooking has been a reflection of my journey to beI want coming domesticated. 
It's a slow progression.  And now I have real motivation to cook.  I want Barry to come home to meal, even when it means starting dinner before I eat lunch.   I want my daughter to see that there is real food, outside of the convience of quick and easy-pick-me ups. 

But most of all I want my family to know that I cook out of love, not obligation. 

My mother is an amazing cook and baker.  I aspire to be like her.  Cooking and baking from scratch.  Growing up, I never really understood how much work it is to make 3 good meals a day.  I never understood why she never just popped quick and easy in the oven.  It was out of love and an internal joy to provide delicious food made with joy for us. 

I get it now. 

And I keep trying to get there - Even with the hovering horror that a repeat of "Foot" pasta may arise again.