Don’t be fooled by the title of this post, because it’s not actually going to be about something I did all by myself. Nope, not even close.
You see, tonight my family was invited to dine at the home of some of our best family friends. We were asked to supply an appetizer, which I quickly volunteered to make. It wasn’t that no one else was willing to make it, but I leaped at the opportunity to try a new recipe for an onion tart that I thought would impress.
But with just less than an hour left until our departure, I found myself naked (okay, I was wearing a bathrobe), unbathed, running around the kitchen like a crazy person, chopping onions (and nearly all five of my left hand’s fingers), my bath getting fuller and fuller, too full even, in the next room, tears streaming down my cheeks (from the onions), stuck with dough that hadn’t quite doubled in size, and feeling so flustered and rushed that I was childishly slamming drawers harder than they needed to be slammed and making threats that I’d just have to be late; I’d join my parents later with the tart and other “Oh, woe is me!” kinds of nonsense. In short, I was throwing a temper tantrum.
I’m sad to say I’ve made a reputation for myself in my family as one who throws epic temper tantrums, and also for my historical need to do things all by myself (or “all BAH maself,” as my parents quote me from my toddler years). I’m especially wary of Papa helping me cook, maybe because I feel the need to prove myself without the help of a former professional chef. I know, foolish, right? Maybe I should try to learn something by cooking with him, instead. Anyway, when Papa stepped in and offered to chop onions for me, I only very grudgingly agreed. I took my bath and found the onions sliced and already sizzling away in a pan of hot olive oil and perfectly toasted fennel seeds. WHAT? This was supposed to be my thing. He was completely taking over!
I angrily stormed off, got dressed and returned to the kitchen, only to find Papa putting white wine into the skillet of onions. This was going too far! The recipe didn’t even call for wine! It was supposed to be a fennel and Dijon mustard onion tart, and it was supposed to be my onion tart, mine! Through gritted teeth I passive aggressivly suggested that Papa just finish the whole tart, that I didn’t care, that I didn’t want any part of it, “Oh yeah, you’re the professional, I’m sure you know how to do it best, Papa,” and similarly sarcastic remarks. And rather than share in the experience, I pouted. I let Papa finish cooking, and I checked my e-mail. I took a few deep breaths and drank a glass of water. I realized I was acting like a total baby. I prepared an apology, but one that included an insistence that I not take ownership of the tart in case of its success, that the glory would belong to Papa seeing as he’d saved the [culinary] day once again.
When it was time to pull the tart from the oven, I did it. It smelled wonderful. It wasn’t the same tart I’d set out to make, but it looked fantastic. Papa let me slice it because I’d seen a photo of a fancily sliced tart (the pieces were diamond-shaped). I kind of messed it up, but it was okay, because it wasn’t my tart, right? I’d written it off.
When we arrived at our friends’ house and we were all comfortably settled in with glasses of wine, happily munching on the delicious onion tart, Papa graciously gave me partial credit. More than partial credit - he called me the chef, the visionary, and himself the sous-chef! I tried not to show that I was embarrassed. I’d only made the dough, after all. I’d made such a scene. I’d told him I didn’t want anything to do with the damn onion tart.
But you know what? It feels a lot better to have partial credit than to have no credit at all. I realized that sometime in my life I adopted the attitude that unless a creative vision is exclusively mine, it’s not worth having. Which is just plain silly.
Sometimes I fool myself into thinking that being a grown-up is about being independent, that it’s about doing things on one’s own. I think I’ve been wrong all this time. I think that growing up is really about learning your weaknesses and accepting help when it’s offered. Especially when you’re very dirty and need a bath and are running behind schedule and are in over your head on a recipe whose prep time you’ve underestimated and when you have a father who just happens to be a culinary genius who is also more than willing to chop onions for you and let you wash your hair, for goodness sake.
This time, I’ve really learned my lesson.
