Karen in the Kitchen
My first profession was as a line cook at several restaurants. My best training came under the tutelage of an NYC-trained chef. She was very instrumental in teaching cream sauces, sautéing, and proper seasoning. I learned great skills working with and for Marsha.
Even though I enjoyed my time with her, got yelled at when required, praised when warranted, worked with two other excellent cooks, and never had to wonder what to make. That problem was corrected by the servers in the dining room, and they brought me a ticket filling everyone’s wants.
I cook for my family today and the only direction I receive is “I don’t care, I don’t know,” and my favorite, “Food!” I am lucky if they give me a meat to start the menu, let alone the sides. So, I fix what I want to eat unless I hear a suggestion. Most time I go out of my way to make it happen. My wife’s favorite is fettuccine alfredo, but that is very rich, and we only have it one or two times per year.
The daily problem I have in my older cooking life is telling our resident Karen I do not need her assistance. For she is the only one in the house that offers to help. Go figure, the only one without opposable thumbs proposes to contribute as she poses as a premier taste-tester of all food. In her Karen-like mind, she sees herself as the savior of the family protecting us from bad food.
She could supervise from the edge of the kitchen waiting for something to drop, but being a Karen of a dog, she forces her furry red head directly in front of me. As I move from stove to refrigerator to countertop, she will forge her ten-inch tongue onto my cutting board for a quick taste. Her puppy trainer told us to step on her and she will learn to stay out of the way. This only works for dogs that are not a Karen. And so, my kitchen dialog includes, “Get out of the kitchen,” repeatedly until I yell at her to get her furry butt out of the kitchen.
Then she pouts the rest of the cooking time while lying in the living room, sometimes in the forbidden red chairs from last week. The echoes of complaints groan throughout the house every five minutes. Then she hears the plate coming out of the cupboard and prances into the kitchen knowing manager mom will soon follow to protect her from me shouting at her.
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