Do you ever just not live up to expectations?

Are you bombarded by well-meaning assumptions that just couldn’t be further from the truth?

Have you been driven to a place of isolation even within your own family because you just don’t seem to fit the mold?

Ever think you’re reading something that’s going to be really intense and soul-deep and it turns out to be about. . . cooking?

Yeah, cooking.

“Coming from such a big family, you must be an amazing cook.”

“So, like, don’t you think baking is like the most relaxing thing ever?!”

“With your [presumed] cooking skills, you’re going to be a fantastic mom one day.”

“Oh, you’re from that family? You must love cooking and baking and whipping up 17-course meals for 50+ people at a moment’s notice just for the sheer freakin’ joy of it!”

Aside from the last statement (which was probably influenced by more than a little sarcasm and pent-up bitterness that I really should be working through), these are all comments I’ve received from people over the years, said with (what I assume are) the best of intentions.

People assume that because I’m from a large family, specifically my large family, I’m an amazing cook. And that I love cooking. I mean, people from my own family think I love cooking. It’s supposed to be in my blood or something.

I mean, it makes sense. My parents (and my grandparents before them, and my great-grandparents before them) are known for their superior food skills: cooking, baking, designing, creating, and displaying their gourmet offerings in a way that fills the soul as much as it does the stomach.

The key factor in differentiating their food from any of the other delicious edible offerings in the world today is the fact that the actual meal isn’t the end goal; rather, it’s the fellowship, community, and general sense of family-ness that comes from eating a delicious meal together—including when it’s not just the immediate family, but even groups larger than some small towns.

Now, what’s not to love about that? If that’s why we cook, why don’t I love cooking? Am I some jerk who hates making people feel happy or bringing a sense of wholesomeness to the world?!

No. (Well, not that I know of. Some of my siblings might argue that one.)

In reality, I love the hospitality component of what goes into serving a meal. I love the fellowship and conversation and jokes and songs and revelations and everything else that goes into sharing a meal with each other.

It’s just the actual cooking part that just doesn’t do it for me.

Now, I’m from a large family. The oldest of eight children. Cooking has never been the airy, fresh, romantic form of cooking that it is for my great-uncle in France.

For him, cooking involves going to the market every day after work and picking up exactly what’s needed for that evening’s meal. Also a fresh loaf of bread. And some flowers. And some wine. And then he and his two fully competent adult children make a meal together while sipping some wine and listening to some relaxing music in the background.

Now compare that experience to cooking for my large family. This has historically looked like me trying to figure out the timing of each individual dish in relation with all the others, while also doing mental math on how to double, triple, or quadruple the requirements from any number of recipes at a given time, while also setting the table for a group the size of a baseball team, while also actually learning how to cook because that stuff isn’t just intrinsic knowledge, while also attempting to teach my younger siblings how to “help” me, all the while trying to dodge the various toddlers who are invariably wreaking havoc in the kitchen at the same time as productivity’s trying to happen.

In short, it’s been stressful and chaotic and never ended with especially good results. Furthermore, because I come from a line of such strong skill, it feels like there’s no room for failure. That in order to live up to the family name, I’ve gotta be amazing right out of the gate. So I just don’t do it.

I justify it in my mind by thinking that it’s okay to be drastically unprepared for life in this major way because cooking for myself, when I live on my own in the near future, will be so much more enjoyable (not to mention necessary for my financial and physical survival). 

However, I recently had an experience that might’ve changed my outlook a little.

Tonight I semi-volunteered (and was semi-voluntold) to make dinner for the family in this tiny little kitchen that has literally a quarter of the utensils and space available than our actual house. My outlook was glum; I was resigned to a less-than-enjoyable and/or successful experience from the start. I mean, we didn’t even have a cookie sheet. How do you make garlic bread without a cookie sheet?

Interestingly enough, this was hands-down one of my favorite cooking experiences of my entire life. It’s almost like creativity flourishes in the face of adversity or something crazy like that!

With the help of a brother and a sister (who were a little bit more helpful than instances in the past), we delivered a delicious final product. It involved juggling multiple batches of food between the same three pots and pans and MacGyvering a solution to The Garlic Bread Problem, but in the end we really pulled together to actually make enough food to feed the swarm of hungry kids at the table.

And the crazy thing is, we actually had fun in the process. And we worked well together. And these are my siblings we’re talking about. I didn’t have to pretend to teach them anything. And, at the end of it, my mom didn’t say, “Wow, I wish you would’ve garnished this better,” or “Yikes, have you ever even heard of salt?!” like my imagination was convinced she would say. Rather, she was blessed and happy with the end result. 

Moral of the story, I guess, is sometimes your greatest fear, hang-up, annoyance, or whatever deters you from doing the thing is actually your greatest asset for successful completion of that very thing. Case in point: my family was not only pleased with the dinner, but other members of the family helped create that dinner. The members I was afraid of this whole time!

So, while I may never live up to the general assumption that I’ll be the next great food-person of the family, I am content with knowing that I am capable of delivering an awesome product, especially when I’m working with them instead of in fear of them.