Mitt Liv I Oz

Let me tell you a secret: I can’t cook.

To me, it seems to be an ability that you are born with –

you simply have it or you don’t.

In today’s food culture, where many of us rely on

microwaves and fast food, my lack of talent in the cooking

area hasn’t always been a concern.

While living on my own, I was quite happy with ready-tomicrowave

meals, takeaways and occasionally eating out

when my budget allowed.

My motto was: ‘‘Who needs to cook when there’s such a

great supply for those of us who can’t?’’

That was until I started dating a Greek guy.

If you haven’t been involved with a Greek family, or even

attended a dinner at a Greek family’s home, you might not

be able to understand the seriousness of the problem.

To have reached the mature age of 23 without being able

to cook up a feast is an unforgivable sin.

My shortcoming has been hard to disguise, considering

the fact I now live with my partner and his family.

They have a tradition of eating dinner together every

Wednesday with two of his uncles’ families, at the home of

whoever’s turn it is to be host.

It is unofficially dubbed a ‘‘cook off’’, with the woman of

the house always making something delicious.

Now, it’s been mentioned to me more than once that

when my partner and I move to our own place, I’ll be the next

to invite them over for dinner.

Great. The very thought of it makes me nervous.

I know what you’re thinking: Just follow a recipe. But it’s

not that easy.

To me, that’s just a list of step-by-step instructions for

preparing ingredients that I forgot to buy, using utensils I

don’t own, and the result never looks like the tasty meal in

the cookbook picture.

Believe me, I’ve tried before.

Last year, I decided that it was time for me to contribute

more to dinner than just making the salad.

Wanting to make it more interesting, I decided to offer

something from my native country.

Unfortunately, my Swedish meatballs weren’t quite up to

scratch.

Afterwards, I heard that they were offered to the dog, who

apparently wasn’t impressed either.

I quickly went back to being the salad maker.

Don’t think I didn’t try to learn because I didn’t enjoy food.

I love eating. It’s just that the love hasn’t quite stretched

out as far as enjoying the cooking itself.

At least I can establish that the myth, ‘‘the way to a man’s

heart is through his stomach’’, certainly isn’t true.

After two years together and without me providing any

culinary experiences, my partner still seems quite happy.

And as for the day we move to our own place, I’ll have to

say: ‘‘If you don’t like my cooking, then lower your

standards.’’

Now that’s a good motto to tuck into.