Are You a Rachael or a Martha?

“I’m a better baker than cook.”

That was my go-to party line while dating when asked about my kitchen prowess. I imagined myself a Martha: all cakes and confections. Talk about delusions of grandeur!

Upon leaving my job and out of work for the first time in years, I was faced with the age-old question: What next? Should I throw myself back into a full-time gig, freelance, travel or take the opportunity to start a family of my own? As my older sister so delicately reminds me, my “eggs are rotting.” So perhaps I should focus on the latter.

But, before that, there is one thing left to do: get in the kitchen! I always imagined my motherhood moments making pancakes, baking cookies and teaching my kids how to cook. There’s just one problem — I don’t really know how. Sure, I grew up baking every so often and therefore coined myself Betty Crocker to potential suitors (it’s all about the upsell!) but I’m more nervous chef than Iron Chef. If I’m going to become a domestic goddess, forget the knives, I have to sharpen up my skills.

So I made my way to the store and started to explore. That was a lesson in itself. After a decade in NYC, chasing my dream career, which resulted in delivery for dinner and diners for breakfast, I’m out of my element. I found myself wandering wide-eyed down the aisles, surveying the surplus of supplies. God bless the patient souls at Whole Foods. Several hours and an extreme headache later, I left ready for my own little kitchen challenge.

My husband requested (before you go all feminist movement on me, he does most of the cooking and it’s good) stuffed chicken for dinner and apple cinnamon muffins for the morning. I thought the muffins were golden (Actually they were more like a burnt brown but more on that later). It was the entrée I was worried about. Cooking chicken makes me nervous. I’m always worried I’ll under do it and give someone salmonella. So, I often end up overcooking it and no one likes a dry bird.

I should mention I’m also slightly scatterbrained. Almost always, I forget one, if not two, of the ingredients or mistake it altogether for something else and mid-experiment either have to send someone (read: scared and hungry husband) to the store or improvise, a dangerous thought when it comes to me in the kitchen.