How I told my mom I definitely didn't like her cooking

My mom is a terrible cook. I will say, however, that she does what she can. 

She grew up in a typical Mexican household where my grandmother would cook every day. Simple things, mind, nothing fancy. Beans, corn, a little bit of meat on the side to make sure her four kids got some protein. The typical dish at any family-owned Mexican restaurant, except that's a very average family meal in an average Mexican neighborhood. Tortillas go unmentioned because they are just there, as part of the table as the plates the food is served in. An important note is that they often went without dessert because my grandmother would never cook it. There was no money for dessert.

To this day, grandma can only make pancakes for dessert. Killer pancakes, yes, but that's about it. For most, they’re more of a breakfast meal.

I digress. 

So, my mom did little to no cooking as she grew up. Not because she was lazy or anything, she simply spent all her time studying or looking after her siblings. Why would she learn to cook if there were more important things to do, like study or make sure her siblings didn't miss school? Being the eldest means having the most responsibility, and she still looks after them today, only instead of calling them out for fighting in the yard, she spends hours on the phone trying to make them see sense. Or actually, trying to make them see the world how she sees it, but that's just me. 

So, back to the cooking.

So, mom turns eighteen. This is when she leaves her little town and the cooking gets truly precarious. Keep in mind, from this point on, she's always been away from home. 

She left her hometown to study medicine in Mexico City way back in the 80s, and lived in the equivalent of a New York City studio apartment for the better part of ten years with no stove. Except the rent in Mexico City is cheaper. Mexico City, 1. New York, 0. 

During this time she survived on nothing but street food and cookies from a nearby pastry factory. At some point, medical students in her college were eligible for a meal plan, which being a brilliant student, she got. Remember, she can't cook at all because she was always studying at home, but that got her a free meal plan, so no problem there. Thing is, like in any college cafeteria, the food there was horrendous. This did nothing for her taste buds, but she was spending nothing on food, and this reduced the need for a stove in her miniature apartment, so things worked out fine. 

In terms of her survival, that is. It did nothing for her cooking. 

Sure, as a student you don't really care all that much about what your food tastes like. The only thing that matters is that you got a warm meal. Actually, what's important as a college student, no matter where you are, is getting a meal. Period. 

So, sometime after that, she met my dad. In Mexican culture, it is considered very important that a woman can cook well. My mom? Well, she can make burnt quesadillas. To my unbelievable luck, that was enough for an also starving medical student far away from home. A fun fact: my dad is a better cook, there's probably a story behind that, but it remains a mystery to me. My bet is he made most of their meals, but that's mere speculation. I guess I will never know.

All of a sudden, mom is calling my grandmother back home, asking her to organize a wedding party with three months' anticipation. No, she did not get pregnant. They were simply in love and were about to graduate. Nothing wrong here. Except for stressing my grandmother out because, wedding planning on such a tight time-frame? Unheard of.

Spoiler alert: there is a surprise pregnancy later on, quite literally spoiling some plans. I was almost born in France.

So, the time comes to choose a place to call home, settle down, get indebted to buy a house. You know the drill. The time my mom spent unemployed during this initial period of married bliss is the closest she will ever get to actually attempting to cook anything fancy. Or that's what I've been told? I'm not sure anymore. 

What's funny is that most Mexican women from a certain social class don't really need to know how to cook. There's this phenomenon where young women from small rural villages come to the big city seeking work as household employees. Their work mostly revolves around, you guessed it, cooking. So, once she began working and could afford it? My mom took the chance running and got back to hospital life like an addict needs heroin. 

The double income and no kids back then probably helped a lot. 

I'd say this is where I come in and everything changed, and that she started cooking because she had two little girls to look after, but I'd be lying. Sure, we always had lunch in our backpacks all the way until middle school, but they were either smashed sandwiches inside ziploc bags or low-calorie low-sugar treats inside their very much commercial plastic packaging.

Am I complaining? Maybe I am. Just a little. I mean, I get it. 

It's not like she ever had the time to worry about learning how to get arroz con leche just right when she was young, or that she could ever concentrate on getting the quesadillas at just the right crispiness during her college days, or that her work let her bake us cake because when we were at school she was working away in her hospital clothes.

It's not like she can do so now, either, because at almost fifty-seven years old, she's just too tired to learn anything new. That, plus the fact I made it my personal mission to learn how to cook as well as I can because if there ain't nice food at home, then I have to make it myself. Maybe it's just that I'm picky, and her food is not actually terrible.

I'm trying to be polite. Her cooking really is terrible. 

Will I ever actually tell her what I think of her cooking? I don't think so. I like being alive, thank you very much.