I spent a great deal of my young life rebelling against one thing: Being in the kitchen. I come from a traditional Mexican-American family and, in my mind, learning how to cook (and clean) meant you were destined to get married.
What did married mean? Cooking and cleaning up after messy, disrespectful children while your husband was out living a more interesting life. To me, it was all a trap that had to be avoided at any cost.
All the relationships I had I held at an arm's length so they didn't end up liking me enough to want to get married. Not only did I go out of my way to not be a particularly good girlfriend, I went as far as to not learn how to cook. As a child, I would ignore the steps my mother took to make Mexican Wedding Cakes, enchiladas, beans, posole, albondigas, and especially tacos. Her arms are scarred with splattered grease from frying the tortillas. I viewed them as marks of her servitude.
Loathing the idea of cooking did not get me out of kitchen.Read More »from User post: Remembering My Mother's Kitchen