My father wanted to force me into being a chef, like his father, his father’s father, and so on. He thought I couldn’t cook, and was constantly berating me for not wanting to follow in the “proud” family tradition.
He would scream at me for wanting to do something, anything else with my life, and forced me to learn to cook. I wanted to be a pilot.
One day, he scoffed at my cooking abilities, telling me that since I didn’t want to learn, I would never make anything taste above dog-food level.
I challenged that notion by baking him one of the tastiest apple pies he had ever eaten. Best of his life. Well, okay. It wasn’t really that good. After the first slice, he just couldn’t keep eating.
He didn’t think I was a good chef, but I think it takes a pretty good chef to hide such bitter poison in a pie.
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