Lugging all the ingredients that seemed to weigh a tonne from the car to the kitchen, I groaned. “Mother, must I really help you with your cooking?” Hearing this, Mother turned back to look at me and nodded her head. I had always despised cooking. Why would I want to waste my time cooking? Though I was reluctant to help out, I agreed.
“Jaryl, help me to prepare all the ingredients that I will require in order to boil the tomato chicken soup,” Mother instructed. My unwillingness was not loud or aggressive but simply stood still like a silent barrier. However, I was in no position to disobey Mother. Reluctantly, I sighed. Wanting to get this over with, I dished out all the ingredients that seemed to be mocking me for my unfortunate task. As quick as a bullet, I placed the wide array of ingredients on the kitchen countertop and waited patiently for Mother to start cooking.
Like an entitled boss, Mother ordered me to dice the tomatoes for her. As if she was the head chef of a Michelin-starred restaurant, Mother then began swiftly chopping some garlic up. With careful hands, I mimicked her motions, slicing through each plump tomato. Seeing the juice running like ruby rivers across my fingers, it made me feel even more disgusted. It made cooking look even more unappealing. Why did I have to do this?
Before I knew it, disaster struck. I accidentally nicked my fingertip with the knife! “Ouch!” I winced in pain. Staring at the open wound that was gawking at me, I was at a loss. Had I known such a terrible thing would happen, I would have never acceded to Mother’s request. Beside me, Mother was a picture of calm. Faced with my injury, she gingerly placed a plaster on it. With doe-like eyes, she tasked me with the safer job of seasoning the star of the dish—the chicken. As I admired her hands dancing over the cutting board, the rhythm of her knife made a steady beat against the wood. I was in awe.
As she sautéed the diced garlic, the aroma of sizzling garlic filled the kitchen. The sizzle of the garlic hitting hot oil sang a melodic tune in my ears. Was I starting to enjoy the process of cooking? Under the patient guidance of my mother, I learnt the art of seasoning: just a pinch of salt, a dash of pepper and a handful of basil leaves torn from the stalk. Slowly but surely, I realised that cooking was not as bad as I had imagined. It was surprisingly fun! Soon, the fragrance of the freshly roasted tomatoes drew me in like a moth, making me eager to taste the soup.
Before long, the soup was ready. The scent of all the ingredients wafted up my nose. Eagerly, I tasted it. Just as I had expected, it was divine. To say that it tasted good was an understatement—it was simply the best soup I had ever tasted. Maybe it was because I had incidentally mastered the art of cooking? Regardless, I was glad to have discovered a new hobby through the whole process. This soup that we prepared was a masterpiece painted with love, laughter, and the heart of the stove.
From this episode, I was proud of myself for overcoming a challenge—one that led me to my newfound hobby. Though cooking was no easy feat, I was glad to have persevered. Discovering a new hobby may be hard, but for cooking, it was definitely one that I would never drop in a million years and hoped to hone in future!
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