Baking phobia

My husband Sam, is awesome. I love him for many reasons, and one of them in particular is the fact he can cook. Not only can he cook, he’s good at it, and actually enjoys it.

I, on the other hand, am the anti-cook. The legends of my cooking cock ups will live on on the hearts and minds of those who’ve had to suffer it for the foreseeable future. The sausage casserole I not only turned orange but then somehow stepped in. The fruit scones that ended up as one giant cake. The legendary chocolate crispie cakes I once attempted with some brownies, which are still known as the ‘pixie disaster cakes’. The list goes on. Sam learnt early on that if he wanted to eat, he was cooking.

It’s not actually the world’s worst deficiency. My husband loves cooking, and even I can boil pasta and chop vegetables. But in my head, it sometimes assumes a significance far greater than it deserves. I am blessed with a huge amount of domestic deity as friends. Whilst they whip up a souffle, and solve the middle east crisis with one hand, I take half an hour to peel a potato. It’s a tiny thing, but for me, if I’m tired and not and grumpy, it becomes the essence of being a woman and I just. Can’t. Do. It.

I realise I’m exaggerating a little, but it’s a real blind spot. Somehow though, I suspect I’m not the only one that does it. Focuses on the negatives until it’s all you can see and you can’t see the light for this big giant dark cloud of failure.

I don’t really know the answers. For me, probably a ready meal and take away menu will solve the immediate problem, but as for the deeper one? Well, God’s on it. But I do wonder if part of it’s about our identity.

See, if I define myself by the world’s standards, I’m never going to measure up. Gordon Ramsey at his most profane won’t make me a good cook. I will never measure up to the world’s ideals, partially because no-one ever does.

I don’t have to measure up to God’s though. He called me whilst I was ‘still far off’, and comes running to meet me, not with condemnation but celebration. No standards to meet before I’m in. No dress size to attain, no perfect measure of godliness before I can approach.

‘I have called you by name. You are mine’.

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