“I want to make churros,” my cousin mentioned to me when I had brought up the Father’s Day lunch. I wasn’t planning on making anything at all, so I didn’t think twice about that statement.
And not to brag, but I did teach the girl how to cook.
I taught her how to cook my way.
Back in my babysitting years I would feed both her and her brother bowl after bowl of Lipton Noodle Soup (extra noodle, no less), countless plates of french fries (baked, of course), and enough cakes and cookies to keep them hyper until the wee morning hours.
No, not the healthiest of diets… but what do you expect from a teenager?
While I’m sure they appreciated the effort, my aunt and uncle would let me know every now and then that it could use some “tweaking.”
“You know, they made soup and I couldn’t eat it. There was so much black pepper! They said that’s how you always make it.”
Well… that’s how I like it.
“Ah! I ate it and said ‘so hot!’ I can’t eat it.”
Things have changed, of course, but they do like to remind me about the pepper incident.
But that’s cooking. Like anything in life, it’s experimental. You can’t always expect perfection. Failure it out there, hanging out on the sidelines. Sometimes it gets to play, most of the time it’s stuck warming a spot on the bench.
Father’s Day, fail was the lead scorer. There were so many things wrong with the churros – from not actually having a recipe to follow, to diving away from the splattering hot oil as the dough ruptured during the frying process.
But at least I’ll have something to bring up.
Hey, remember that time you wanted to make churros?
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