I come from a long line of women who DO NOT cook. When I was a kid, I remember my mom making three dishes: scrambled eggs, salad, and coffee. (She does make a good cup of coffee.)

My grandmother doesn’t even cook. The best thing she makes? “Reservations!” I ask her why she gave up cooking, and she just shrugs. “So do you want Chinese or Italian?”

Perhaps this lack of tradition is why I’ve had such challenges in my culinary development. My challahs end up dense like bagels, and I’m afraid to even try to cook chicken soup for fear of giving everyone salmonella. I set the kitchen of my college apartment on fire five times in the four years I lived there–one time was even the night before Thanksgiving! (The firefighters seemed almost bored that time.)

Who ever heard of a non cooking rebbetzin? Aren’t I supposed to have magical powers that give me the ability to bake batch after batch of cookies that taste like heaven and nostalgia with just a hint of almond that make you weep for a delicious time that never was? When do I get that recipe book? Is it handed to me at Suzie’s ordination with a wink and an apron?

Or maybe this is more of a fairy godmother thing. Suzie has tons of mentors. Where’s my rebbetzin mentor? Do I have to be left home, weeping over a sink full of dirty dishes on the night of a ball, in order for a mentor to help me out with my magical rebbetzin cooking? Do I get some kind of Disney moment when Aunt Jemimah and Mr. Clean magically come to life and create a feast just by throwing a fresh table cloth on the dining room table? Or maybe Mrs. Cosby can have a cameo in an episode of Blossom and teach me how to have a cake ready for all of life’s important moments. 

(Enter Mrs. Cosby at 8:42)

Somehow, I don’t think even Mrs. Cosby could rescue my culinary fiascoes. But you know what? I’m okay with that. I guess I’ll just be a rebbetzin without the recipe book. As my grandma always says, “F#ck it!”

 

Bad Rebbetzin Blog Part 4

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