I
hear the sounds of chopping, mixing, and boiling; through the small crack of
the fridge, I see her slaving away at the cutting board desperately trying to
feed her hungry family. As I wait to be turned into a delicious stuffed pepper
or a light pasta salad, I see her daughter learning the tricks of the trade; I
do not know where her husband and son are.
If not for their voices at the
dinner table or their steps through the kitchen, it would be hard for me to
figure out that they even existed. I wondered why on the days when she was sick
or tired they decided to order a pizza or pick up some Chinese food. They
depended on her to “cook their meals” every single day.
I
thought back to my mother who had once been an ingredient on a Gordon Ramsay
special, my grandfather who had been in Jamie Oliver’s kitchen, and my brother
who had been served in a Wolfgang Puck restaurant.
These places are Holy Grails
for us peppers and I realized how much of a disappointment I actually was; I
only ended up in some sad suburban kitchen that would never reach any fame. Of
all the famed places my family had reached, the cooks always seemed to be a
husband, father, or son; they were never the mothers or daughters I had grown
accustomed to. I found this very strange because in a field where women are expected
to know more than men, the very best, the crème de la crème, are mostly men. I
have not come across a good justification for this sad fact and I do not think
one exists. The cooking industry, both in the home and on the television, needs
to change.
