The Highs and Lows of being a Foodie.

One of my proudest moments ever was when my Mum felt comfortable enough to leave me alone in the kitchen and not keep peering over my shoulder, giving me tips and being helpful yet somewhat annoying. God bless her.

This may seem like an everyday occurrence but what made it all the more momentous for me is that I was making lunch for my Dad.

My late Dad was particular about his food.  Not that he was difficult. It’s just that as he got older, his tastes changed. A lot. Frequently.  So it became a challenge keeping up with what he liked or could not stand the sight of. 

Being in the kitchen was never a chore for me.  I love food and hold the grand title among my siblings, bestowed on me by Mother Dearest, as The One Child Who Ate Anything and Everything Placed On Her Plate.

I wasn’t that child who carefully separated each and every sliver of onion from the rest of the food (my sister Asiimwe). Or the child who baulked at the thought of drinking milk or eating any vegetable that came in bunches (my sister Kaine. Cauliflower and broccoli, to this day). Or the child who reacted violently to any food of colour (carrots, spinach, ketchup. Ketchup?! Which child hates the sight of ketchup?! My brother, Baingana. Not any more!) No, I was happy to put everything in my mouth.  Legend has it that I was also fond of wallpaper (Swiss, specifically), and sand, fresh from the sand pit (don’t judge me).  I was what you call an Equal Opportunities Eater. That’s what happens when one of your parents works for the UN.  I am happy to report that my tastes never included insects, thank goodness.

I think the fact that I spent many happy hours in the kitchen with my mother as the official food taster and fridge quality inspector (I was often found eating my way through the week’s supply of tomatoes at the bottom of the fridge) has led to my love for cooking.

I looooooooooooooooove my kitchen.  Throw me in there with my favourite music, a hot stove and a glass of wine and I will cook up a storm.  I haven’t poisoned anyone (yet) and as far as I know, I’m a pretty damn good cook.

So why the sudden apprehension when I offer to cook for my dude and he offers to take me out?  Or worse, BRING FOOD HOME?! What am I doing wrong? 




Some women might say I’m being ungrateful.  Who wouldn’t want to be taken out for dinner and avoid having the scent of onions and garlic under their nails?

It’s not that. It’s just… could it be that I’m not as good a cook as I thought?  Is he bored with my culinary offerings?  Was I a bit too heavy handed with the black pepper the other night?!  Who knows?


It’s at times like this when I wish I could crawl back to those safe, innocent days with my mother in the kitchen, ready to eat everything she gave me and safe in the knowledge that everyone else was going to have to eat it too.  Ah well. Another life lesson, I suppose.

*Awesome cartoon by @DBarongo. Follow him on Twitter. Ah, go on. Give the lad a follow.

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