Who am I in the kitchen?

I'm not known for my cooking. In fact, grocery stores haven't counted me as an active member since March of 2020. But a good friend recently reminded me of my reference to the "Rise of the Kitchen Bitch" piece by Hanna Rosin more than a decade ago. (Note: The internet has been scrubbed of this piece, so don't bother searching for it.)

Then was a period of empowerment--the wooden spoon was my paintbrush, and the dinner hour was my canvas. I recall a binder of printed recipes and hand-written shopping lists that I made in response. Bon Appetit pages with notes scribbled in the margins still occupy my bookshelf in the yearbook and photo album section collecting dust.

My son and I made fried rice on Wednesday night. Almost every ingredient came from the vegetable drawer except for the aspirational tofu I purchased on a whim. I'm grateful for the wok that's hot enough to make every sauce sizzle. The power move came from the 12-year-old who plated the dish with a sunny-side-up egg atop each soy-infused dome, monuments to our culinary efforts. We sank our forks into a satisfying feast of our combined creation. 

I'm not known for my cooking, but I can cook.