Since last Sunday was Father's Day, I figured I'd try to atone for being a complete disappointment and overall scar on the family name with a coconut cream pie.
Jessica Burgess
Clearly Unedited
I stayed up late the night before, boiling various milks and sugars and shredded island fruits, then, when it was ready, I poured the mixture into a Pillsbury pre-made crust. (What? I have to be a pastry chef too? Go to hell.)
The next day, when I presented it to my family, I was very proud, acutely aware of the symbolism of the moment. Ne'er-do-well daughter gives family edible food. It was totally a turning point in our relationship.
I wiped away a happy tear, put the knife to the pie, then watched, aghast, as it plunked to the bottom. My lovely dessert was nothing but a pool of coconutty liquid.
"Curse you, Betty Crocker, and your 'approximate' cooking times!" I shrieked, shaking my fists at the sky. "CURSE YOU!" Then I put on a mask and rushed to the basement of an opera house in Paris, which I haunted for many years.
Like almost everyone I know, I work very hard at pretending I can cook. It's tough to be an acceptable '00s hipster if you don't know what cilantro is – which, of course, I do. It's, um, [frantic clicking on allrecipes.com] some sort of spiced meat. Right? [More clicking.] No, it's a plant. Wait, that has to be wrong. Who puts plants in their food? Gross, dude.
My mom can cook. But did she ever bother to teach me how? No! Except for that coffee cake made solely with white flour, butter and brown sugar. And some Crisco, too. Hot damn, that's a tasty cake.
But knowing how to make "Heart Attack Tart" isn't enough these days. People in our age group are expected to know how to do fancy things that don't involve Crisco at all. (In the kitchen, at least.)
For example, here's my friend Kate's menu for a run-of-the-mill Saturday. "I made chicken sausage-stuffed cannelloni with béchamel sauce; homemade marinara; couscous salad with currants and cilantro; roasted chicken with leeks, lemons and rosemary; hummus; and toffee bars," she said matter-of-factly, brushing her 3-year-old's hair. "And a pesto sauce for later in the week."
For God's sake, Kate. Way to make the rest of us look like schlubs.
Anyway, my family bravely ate the coconut soup, and I was complimented for my "great effort," which made me feel like I was back at McNair Elementary School playing kickball and having trouble synchronizing my kicks with the appearance of the ball.
Oh well. It's OK that I can't cook – I have other talents. I mean, I've got to, right? Plenty of people don't blossom until later in life. It's just a matter of finding what makes me soar.
In the meantime, I'll have to find another use for all this Crisco.
Seriously, that coffee cake was really good. E-mail Jessica for the recipe at jburgess@ quickdfw.com.
