panic at the disco in my kitchen

New Year's Eve is coming up, and it is the biggest holiday of the year for former Soviet citizens. In deference to atheistic Communism, they took all the trappings of Christmas and moved them to New Year's. You've got your gift giving, your "New Year's" tree, your feast, your in-door sparklers....yes, in-door. Don't you too usually light sparklers inside? Mix that with a confined space and their typical vodka drinking ways and all I can say is, "Fire hazard, fire shmazard!"

This year we have several Uzbek friends joining us and as I try to decide what to cook, I feel that old feeling of stage fright creeping up on me. It was a feeling quite common to me when we lived in Uzbekistan. I always felt, rightly or wrongly, that my worth as a human being was being judged based on how well I cooked dinner. Which was not always very well! In the early days of our marriage, I remember serving up a not particularly well received breakfast to DH's family. Back then, I thought that when making boiled eggs, the point was to boil them for as long as possible. (I was scared of salmonella, ok?) That idea went for potatoes and pretty much anything else boiled as well. I was not particularly well trained in the culinary arts and had to learn on the fly (thanks Mom!) In addition to trying to learn to cook with only the help of Betty Crocker's Cookbook, I was also hobbled by not having access to a grocery store, being somewhat afraid of turning on the gas stove top, being very very afraid of turning on the oven, and by basically thinking that cooking was a lot harder than it really is. So that particular breakfast, with the overcooked eggs, was greeted with a less than enthusiastic response and a pointed question, "Why did you get married if you can't even boil an egg?" ouch.

Thankfully, my belief that anything can be learned from a book turned out ok this time, and my cooking skills and self-assurance have improved with time. Not only that, but my relationship with DH's family also took a drastic turn for the better. But still, when it comes to cooking for other Uzbeks, my old lack of confidence peeks around the corner. Sure, I think the Uzbek dishes I make are good, but I don't know how they seem to people who grew up with them. What if my version of osh seems as far off base as the pizza I ordered in Kiev that was topped with ketchup, mayonnaise and corn?






Wish me luck! And if you don't have anything else to do, come eat with us on New Year's eve. At least I know you won't be able to tell whether my finished dishes are authentic versions or not.