Naked Hot Dogs

When I was a kid, my favorite thing in the world when I visited my grandmother was putting on an apron, standing on a stool, and helping her bake from scratch. My grandmother was an amazing cook--just good homemade food--and we made donuts from scratch, something called "war cake" (family tradition), and assorted other really wonderful dishes and baked goods.

Any of my friends reading this are now howling, tears streaming down their faces. Why? Because I don't cook. As in Do Not Cook Ever. I don't boil water. I don't make mac 'n' cheese out of a blue cardboard box. I don't make grilled cheese sandwiches. Now, my significant other was a chef for 20 years, give or take, so that's part of it. He makes it look effortless. It's never from a recipe. We have one of those professional Belgian waffle makers. No Eggo's for my kids. Fresh Belgian waffles in the a.m. with strawberries and freshly whipped cream. My kids don't request steak for dinner. They request steak with a white wine butter sauce and sauteed mushrooms. You get the idea.

Now, my bestest friend Pammie will tell you on occasion I TRY to cook. After all, I have those memories of Grandma. "Cooking" is a relative term, though. For me, cooking is whatever frozen morsels can be put on a cookie tray and cooked at 400 degrees until done. But even THAT I managed to screw up. One time, I had Pammie over and made those little cocktail franks wrapped in dough. Well, I did SOMETHING wrong. I mean, I ASSUMED (fatal assumption) you slapped said hot dogs on a tray and cooked 'em at 400 degrees and voila. But someone didn't tell the hot dogs that. I pulled out the tray and EVERY SINGLE little cocktail frank had UNROLLED. So basically, I had 24 flat biscuits and 24 unwrapped hot dogs. All of them fairly "cajun style."

But I am not afraid to try.

I'm taking a glass-cutting and slumping class at a local art studio (will post pictures when I make something). I took up knitting. I do this badly. That's OK . . . I LOVE it. I love that it uses a different side of my brain. I love making things for people I love. Significant Other and I went out for cocktails with two friends the other night and when the other husband said, "Oh, you knit? Can you make me a scarf?" I leaped at the chance! I knit things for my nanny's daughter. I knit scarves for a charity project. Again, BADLY. But I like doing it.

Ceramics? Sure, I'll try it. Tai Chi--been there, done that. Yoga. Anything . . . This week, I painted a mirror with gilded edges for my living room.

And I realized something . . . My parents never, ever, ever said to me, "You can't do that." They never said you won't ever be a writer. You won't ever make it doing this or that. They encouraged BIG dreams--always with a "why not"? When my seventeen-year-old (thankfully!) says she won't marry until she's thirty because she wants to travel around the world playing her violin, and says, "I want to see EVERYTHING." She means EVERYTHING. Why not?

When my nine-year-old says she's going to tour as a drummer while designing clothes for the band (and I cannot BEGIN to tell you, now that she's getting pretty good, how LOUD drums are--I mean LOUD, and this house carries that noise until my teeth rattle!!!)--why not?

I look at people stuck in very narrow visions of what a wife should be, a mother should be, a career should be. I look at people afraid to try. Not me.

And so I have my parents to thank. Truly. I am not afraid to try . . . and that's a good thing.

To anyone reading this--and you know who you are because some of you email me off the blog--who dream of writing a novel . . . do it. Don't be afraid. Try it!

You just might love it. And even if you end up with something akin to a bunch of unrolled naked hot dogs . . . that's OK, too. You will have learned something.

Thoughts? What have you tried?