The day will come

The edict is out. It is settled. Although I do not like the implication of who wears the pants in my parent’s relationship, I cannot complain because it is to my favour (oh how selfish~). I have won the good fight, albeit, unexpectedly.

There comes a day when every woman, or should I say, every mother, has to…

… SHARE HER KITCHEN WITH HER CHILD(REN)!

In my opinion, that would be the saddest day of my mother’s life.

The kitchen is my mother’s sanctuary. It is the only area in the whole house which belongs to her, and her only, where she wields the most power. If you have taken a gender studies module before, it is quite sad and pathetic to only be assigned the kitchen out of the whole house. But gender studies and equality aside, I believe my mother actually likes the idea of having the kitchen all to herself. We have to obey her in there and follow all her instructions to a T. Even my father has to do as she says.

Naturally, my siblings and I never really had a chance to use the kitchen. We have to wage a war (or resort to piteous begging) whenever we want to use the kitchen. But it does not work. My mother’s heart, when it comes to her kitchen, is iron-clad. Even my dad is forbidden to cook in the kitchen. The only concession is instant noodles but we have to clean up well (and I mean WELL) or else… …you get the picture.

However, in recent years, my mother has slowly relaxed her grip over the kitchen. She allowed me to bake, for which I am grateful, although I have to get her to stay OUT of the kitchen (or someone will get hurt eventually). Then I slowly took advantage of that privilege to make my own meals, simple stuff that only requires steaming and frying eggs/bacon/luncheon/meat/onions so I don’t make a big mess and get my ill-begotten privilege revoked. She didn’t say anything about it and that is as far as I dare to take advantage.

But it is all about to change.

Suddenly, one fine evening (this year), my father, my mother and I were hanging around in the kitchen. Suddenly my father looked at me (with renewed eyes I supposed and realised how old I’ve become) and said that I should learn how to cook from my mother. You know, because I am old and of a marriageable age and so should KNOW how to cook for my future husband and the family of little things we are going to create. YEAH RIGHT. But I jumped on the opportunity (although I knew I will never have a family of little things) and threw my mother under the bus (shamed). I said that she wouldn’t let me cook or use the kitchen to cook and that she is keeping the whole kitchen to herself. I am not lying, just exaggerating, you know, to get my point across.

Needless to say, my father issued the edict and since then, I have made dinner (like a whole dinner, not just one dish which my mother begrudgingly lets me stir around) for my family. Once. Only once. 

It’s pathetic really, but I realised that cooking a whole meal (which is inclusive of buying ingredients, preparing said ingredients and then washing the dishes and whatever paraphernalia used) is not easy. It takes time, money and energy. 

But it is worth it, all of it. Worth the satisfied smacking of lips I hear at the end of a meal well done.