Creative Chaos

I was never allowed to cook in my mom's kitchen.  She may have let me help prep at times--I truly don't remember--but, for the most part, it was her kitchen, and she hated messes.  She has always had a very particular way she likes things done, and cleaning up as you go is a must. I, on the other hand, am kind of a disorderly cooker, preferring to whip up a mess along with my culinary creations.

I lived at home part of the time I was dating John, and I wanted to invite him to dinner--one I cooked myself.  I decided on chicken parmesan and happily set out to make him and my parents a meal we could all enjoy together.

I won't bore you with the details (admittedly because I don't remember most of them--a coping mechanism for sure), but let's just say it wasn't a June Cleaver occasion, and by the time I was done cooking, I was angry and upset because I felt like my mom took over after a barrage of criticisms about the way I was preparing the meal. And, I was pretty vocal about my displeasure during the meal when John complimented me--to the point he kicked me (gently) under the table to get me to stop. I am sure it was one of the most uncomfortable moments of his life. I'm still not 100% sure why he stuck around, but I am certainly glad he did.

Today, I had one of my Sunday cooking marathons after a trip to the store.  I love prepping for the week to make meals a snap.  While roasting chicken breasts, I crafted a three-meat blend of Italian sausage, ground pork, and ground turkey for mozzarella-stuffed meatballs and browned them in the oven before putting them in the crockpot with some spicy marinara; I formed the remainder of the ground blend into a meatloaf after adding bacon, steak sauce, fried onions, and seasonings; I used the chicken breasts to make a sort of shepherd's pie with leftover mashed potatoes, saving some of the pan drippings for the risotto I will make later for John's Father's Day meal; and I doctored up a pasta salad mix, adding Italian meats and cheese for quick lunches.

It was a frenzy, pure pandemonium. Here's the aftermath:

What my mom would call a mess, I choose to call creative chaos.  No recipes, no careful measuring. Just me using my instincts and palette to make some meals for the people I love. I don't even hate the cleaning-up part. Oddly, it's like the icing on the cake--restoring order to the mess I've made.

The best part is, we will enjoy the fruits of my labor as we sit together--no kicking under the table.

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