There is a lot of pressure when you cook for other people. I have this paralyzing fear of being judged entirely on my cooking skills, which are virtually non-existent. I wonder if it’s a remnant psychological glitch somewhere in my psyche that harbors the idea that all women should get married, whip up a gourmet meal at a moments notice, keep a neat and tidy household, raise a flock (herd? murder?) of babies, and grow up to be nurses or teachers, but only as an option to spinsterhood.
Hmmmm… nah. F*** that. More likely it’s the fear that people might find a hair in their food.
Because the mere thought grosses me out so much I made that cat-horking noise (Gak!) out loud as I’m typing this, I’ve started to wear a shower cap when I cook. There was momentary consideration of the standard food service hair net. But it’s only a net. There’s still a chance that a hair might slip out of one of the little holes. I realize I look totally insane standing over the stove in hot pink and purple flowered shower cap, but better safe than hairy.
For the past week, I have been stressing about today’s potluck at work. I signed up to do a dessert then immediately started freaking out.
My Internal Gordon Ramsay: WHAT?!! Dessert?! Are you mad? You’ve only made two desserts in your entire life and I shouldn’t allow the mud-pie when you made when you were three to count.
Me: I know I can do it. There has to be a three-ingredient, five-star dessert recipe for a beginner out on the internet somewhere. [Frantically Googling.] The internet has everything! Right??
My Internal Gordon Ramsay: Dear god, this is the worst predicament I’ve ever encountered! Why didn’t you stay in your specialty area and volunteer to bring drinks and paper plates like you usually do? You can’t afford to start experimenting now! Especially with this group!
Me: I’m tired of being mocked as the soda and silverware person. I want to do contribute an actual dish.
My Internal Gordon Ramsay: This will end in tears, mark my words! Probably tears followed by puking!
Me: [Punching myself in the head] Shut the f*** up, Gordon! Get out of my kitchen!! And my head!
I made custard pie, then as a Plan B I made a fresh fruit salad and bought a can of Redi-Whip. We’ll see how it goes. Now my fear is that my dishes will be the only ones no one eats.
Next time I’m calling in sick on potluck day.