A dear old friend of mine (I think she’s all of late 20’s) reminded me of one previously unmentioned reason for my issues with food/cooking…
Oh, yes. I think I’ve repressed my thoughts on this, but now I’m pretty sure it all goes back to my mom.
(Sorry, Mom, if you’re reading this. You know I love you.)
My mom can cook. She can cook really well. And she loves to experiment with her cooking. I have many, many memories of the crazy things she made over the years.
She’s never understood my aversion to food touching (previously mentioned here) and somewhat ridiculed my preference for wanting the basics (example: she still gives me a hard time for wanting traditional turkey and stuffing at Thanksgiving — what in the world am I thinking, after waiting all year for those specific foods?) She’d rather add nouveaux (that’s new in fancy french) ingredients that test my tasting patience.
And she really likes to talk about what she’s cooking or has cooked and what she used to cook it in and how she cooked it, etc…
This is why her and Hubby are two peas in a pod. In fact, she calls him the daughter she never had. (Really, that doesn’t mess with my self-esteem at all.)
Technically she hasn’t done anything to make me not want to cook. But, during my teenage years and possibly my twenties into my thirties, my stubborn nature led me to purposely not cook, just because she loved it so much.
(It’s a mother/daughter thing – you understand, right?)
So, can’t I blame her, too?
Darn, I didn’t think so.