by E.H. (12th Grade)

Something they don’t prepare you for when you first move abroad is how different grocery shopping is going to be. Suddenly, there are no marshmallows, no baby onesies, and no cream of mushroom soup! So, like the wonderful woman she is, my mom began making all kinds of homemade foods that weren’t readily available in stores—breads and sauces, jams and olives— cooking up a storm to feed our (then) family of four. Watching her meal prep week in and week out, my older sister and I decided we ought to take a stab at the kitchen (do bear in mind we were five and seven at the time, without the simplest idea of how to cook). After endless begging and pleading, my mom begrudgingly allowed us to make dinner that night: mac and cheese. 

With some supervision (lots) we boiled water, dancing our little hands through the steam and smacking each other out of the limelight. I don’t doubt the pasta was overcooked, we were too fixated on the novelty of being chefs to think about the food. We grated cheese (a rare miracle no blood was drawn), got out spices and poured our hearts and souls into the pasta. 

I don’t remember the pile of dishes or spills on the floor (although undoubtedly there were many), only the pride of cooking my very first meal. We set the table nice that night: folded napkins and scooted in chairs. My parents entertained us, stroking our egos with every bite; mac and cheese never tasted so good.

From then on, we became what we considered culinary masterminds. The second mom left the kitchen, we’d scour the place for a spoon of sugar, a can of tuna; we’d smell the spices as if it meant something to us. For a good two-week period (before the ingredients were officially banned from general use) we made microwave cakes (our own recipe!), dumping in food dye to keep it interesting. Rubbery and bland, those colourful cakes marked many a bed and breakfast for my dear parents. Although I can’t say I’d do it again, I’m awfully glad for the sub-par food of my childhood.