Cooking Disaster Level: Expert

I entered the kitchen with confidence.

That was my first mistake.

In my head, I was already done cooking.

The food had turned out perfect.

Someone was about to say, “Ei, you cooked this?”

Reality had other plans.

I decided to cook a simple Ghanaian meal.

Nothing serious.

Just something small.

I started strong.

Onions chopped.

Oil heating.

Pepper blended with courage.

The moment the oil got hot, it started talking back.

Pshhh!

I stepped away like it had insulted me.

I added the onions carefully, shielding my face like I was entering battle. The smell was good. Too good. I felt proud.

That pride lasted exactly three minutes.

I added seasoning.

Then added more.

Then wondered if I had added too much.

I tasted it.

I stared at the spoon.

I added water to fix it.

Now it was confused.

The pepper was too much.

The salt was hiding.

The onions had given up.

At this point, the food was no longer Ghanaian.

It was international suffering.

Smoke filled the kitchen.

My eyes watered.

The smoke alarm threatened my peace.

I opened the window.

A neighbor passed and sniffed.

I pretended not to be home.

I stirred aggressively, like the food could feel fear.

When I finally served it, I sat down with determination.

I took one bite.

Silence.

I swallowed.

It wasn’t good.

But it was food.

In Ghana, that counts.

I ate it anyway.

Not because I wanted to.

But because I cooked it.

Next time, I’ll order food.

Cooking is not my calling.

And that’s okay.