More than a kernel of truth to this story

As I prepare another disappointing dinner for the family, I will share one of my recent articles with you regarding my least favorite time of day:

I am not a great cook. I am not even a pretty good cook. I am the type of cook who prepares a meal because eating is a requirement to stay alive. Based on that motivation, you can imagine the zest with which I approach dinner preparation. Yup, it’s like watching a 12-year-old do his algebra homework…without a pencil, a calculator, or the will to live.

Every day it’s the same thing: six o’clock rolls around and I wonder what gourmet creation I can whip up in seven minutes or, and this is always my preference, if I can get away with a frozen pizza for the third night in a row. I have come to loathe this time of day, and for no reason other than having to come up with something my family members can push around on their plates while telling me how much they dislike it. Thankfully, they are always subtle and respectful when sharing their mutual disgust. (i.e. What is that nasty thing? What is this supposed to taste like? Is this burnt or just gross?)

Anyway, I’m only sharing my lack of culinary talent as a preface to a story about an experience at my daughter’s school that has forced me to take a hard look at the facts. First of all, I need to take a cooking class. Secondly, I need to read my e-mails a bit more carefully. Thirdly, I need to come to grips with the painful reality that my daughter’s teachers will never again ask for an edible contribution from my household without express written instruction. No, not even then.

It all began simply enough. After finishing a unit on the Iroquois Indians, my daughter’s class was going to hold a celebration honoring their traditions to include Indian-inspired food, dance and craft making. As parents, we were instructed to contribute by helping our children prepare a dish to share at the celebration. The key phrase here is “prepare a dish,” which I apparently glazed over during the initial reading of the e-mail instructions.

My daughter came home one day and announced that she had signed up for corn. I asked the obvious questions: What kind of corn? How much? Canned or frozen? To each of my inquiries she looked stumped but then shrugged it off, telling me that a can of corn was fine. She did make one request, to dump it into a Tupperware bowl. Okay, even I – the anti-Rachel Ray – could handle that. Or so I thought.

I didn’t remember my commitment until 10p.m. the evening before. Of course I was out of canned corn and none of my neighbors, who have things like cilantro and organic lemonade in their kitchens, had a single kernel. I ran to the local supermarket the next morning, picked up two cans of corn, and hand-delivered them to the school. I was proud of myself because, as instructed, I placed the corn – still in the pop-top cans – into a Tupperware dish so that it was ready for the microwave. I even picked up some extra cornbread in case they ran out. How very thoughtful of me.

Then the other mothers pulled up to the school and ruined everything. As I stood proudly with my Market Basket bag, they pulled pots and dishes of homemade treats out of their cars. One mother had risen from bed at 5 a.m. to make the cornbread from scratch; the other had made turkey soup. I was half expecting someone to arrive with a breaded cornucopia. And there I stood with my canned corn.

These were the good mothers of the world. And, although their domestic prowess made me look like a complete failure, they were kind enough to support my imperfect contribution, and even applauded my last-minute resourcefulness. You see why it’s impossible for me to dislike these women.

My offering was certainly appreciated, and I heard (from a little Iroquois birdie) that my store-bought cornbread was gobbled up. However, I think we missed the point of the exercise. Or perhaps I was behind a unit since they had recently studied food groups and how products arrive on supermarket shelves. I would have been better suited for that one.

The good news is that my daughter was happy to see me when I arrived and wasn’t at all embarrassed by my less than stellar presentation. I figure she understands my limitations at this point and simply appreciates the effort. And it’s really all I can ask for since she’s eaten a lot of microwaved canned corn in the past 10 years. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.