In my teenage years, cooking was never my responsibility; it was my sister's. My role was minimal, helping out by pounding pepper and keeping her company from start to finish.
Life was pleasant with my siblings around until my sister got married, leaving me as the only female in a house with three grown males. The torch of cooking was thrust upon me without consultation.
I couldn't recall the exact meal I started with, but it was probably something as basic as rice. My brothers, being the ever-supportive family, tried to boost my confidence.
"Big sis is off enjoying her married life, so you know you are our new chef," teased my elder brother, Gabriel.
"I can already taste Mary's delicious food in my mind. I'm sure you will do even better," chimed in Austin.
Their encouragement was mixed with teasing, and I had no choice but to accept my new duty. Walking into the kitchen alone was daunting. I felt like a loner in unfamiliar territory. But I couldn't complain; they were all male siblings.
As I stood in the kitchen, contemplating where to begin, which ingredients to use, and how to make the food tasty, a thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Suddenly, I snapped back to reality, took a deep breath, and decided to prepare all the ingredients ahead. With everything set, I ignited the stove, placed the pot, and embarked on my culinary journey.
My first attempt at cooking was far from perfect. The food wasn't bad, but it wasn't the masterpiece I had expected.
"Great attempt," my eldest brother commented, trying to be supportive.
"I always knew Mary could cook," Gabriel added, perhaps more optimistic than truthful.
Although their compliments sounded exaggerated, they still brought a smile to my face. I knew they were just trying to make me feel excited and confident. The food wasn't bad but not what a good cook would present after long hours spent in the kitchen.
So, I persisted. I cooked day after day, surfing online for research on various recipes. It had been a ritual for us to have rice and stew every Sundays. My big sis used to present us with stew that was neither too watery nor too thick, but my siblings often complained that she didn't know how to cook stew. That criticism was something I aspired to overcome.
With each endeavor, my cooking improved. The taste of my food grew better with each passing day. I invested effort into mastering different recipes, determined to earn the elusive phrase from my brothers: "This is the kind of stew we have been looking for." But that praise never came through.
But at this age, I can boost in confidence that my culinary skills have truly improved compared to what it used to be. It is only now if I visit their different houses that I can accept praises and compliments from them with genuine pride.
While I taught that them allowing me to start cooking from the beginning till the end everyday without assistance was a punishment, as I grew older, I realized that training was a way of making me a better cook.