In the last few months I had made a resolve. To do what I love to do the most. Cook. Experiment. Revel in the success of my cooking experiments and experience and scatter around my nuggets of wisdom.
Little did I know my head had something else planned. You can take your arrogance and shove it, it tried to tell me. But me, did I learn? Not a wee bit.
Almost three months of despairing defeat of one dud cake after another, one runny sauce after another, one bad commingling flavours after another has me running scared now.
All those cake pans, spatulas, measuring spoons and cups make me quake. My hand trembles when I casually throw in salt on a salad. What if’s constantly crowd my mind. And I continue making disaster after another.Cakes that I have been baking since I was 15 years old are proving to be my down fall. A simple dal is becoming a monumental task. Even sticking to recipes isn’t helping.
I do not know how to go into the kitchen and rescue my cooking mojo and it is a scary thought. But I shall brave on (I say looking at a strangely half cooked, sunk yet toothpicked clean cake from today afternoon)