As it should be between siblings, my brother and I are close. Actually, I consider him to be one of my best friends. He’s older (mid thirties), mature, cultured, an accomplished physician and like me…single. On occasion I call him with a medical emergency, “I experienced a spasm in my big toe…does that mean I have MS?” He gets a thrill out of my hypochondriatic tendencies and laughs hysterically. “I’m serious,” I say. “I might be dying.” In his try-not-to-scare-the-patient voice, he tells me, “We’re all dying.” Ummm…if that doesn’t scare the patient…
My brother gives great advice and sometimes even seeks it from his little sister (me), which is strange at times and I think: I’m the younger sister who lives like a nomad wondering from city to city searching for my purpose in life…what advice could I possibly give you or anybody for that matter? But when he asks, I give it a go—sometimes surprising myself with an enlightening thought or two.
Most of the time my brother and I usually trade accounts of our week, discuss current events, music, the latest in pop culture and of course…family drama. Lately, there’s been a lot of talk about him establishing his own practice and me getting my first book published, The Preacher’s Daughter (had to throw that in there). We seldom argue and when we do, it usually starts with me offering my two cents without being invited to do so…that’s just what sisters do. For instance, he’s headed to Brazil in the coming weeks and what’s the first thing out of my mouth, “AIDS is running rampant down there…don’t bring home nothing you can’t get rid of from one of those Brazilian women.” He reminds me, “AIDS is an epidemic right here in the U.S. amongst African American women between the ages of 25 and 34.” He continues, “And, they’re 21 times as likely to die from the disease than white women.” I rest my case and simply say, “Have fun in Brazil.”
So, during one of our recent two-hour phone conversations—in which I ranted and raved about never finding “the one,” who obviously isn’t Mr. Goodbrother…if you read the last blog—my brother tells me…of all things and of all of my quirks, flaws and inabilities…that the reason in which I’ll never get married is not because I can be controlling or that I’m a tad bit sassy and uber-opinionated or that I have a habit of taking long showers and using up every drop of hot water in the tank or anything of that nature. He says it’s because…well…I can’t cook. Wow! I’m a little taken aback by his comment. But, it’s true. I can’t and won’t deny it. And I’m reminded of the fact every time that I’m asked to bring the paper goods and drinks to a family gathering instead of being asked to bring a dish or when my two cousins, who I often babysat when they were younger, reminisce about the time I burnt up a DiGiorno’s frozen pizza. Recalling the incident; the fire alarm went off, smoke filled the air and the pizza was burnt to a ruined crisp—completely inedible.
I ask my brother, “Are you serious?” And he responds by saying that he’s dead serious and that no man wants to come home after a hard day’s work to a Hungry Man tv dinner. “Whatever,” I say. “I’ve been told that I make a mean baked potato (true). I’m a football fanatic (men love women who like sports…don’t they?) and I’m OCD when it comes to cleanliness. Those things have to count for something.” He stands firm in his declaration.
I suppose he may be right. Admittedly, one of the first questions that I’m constantly asked after meeting a man is, “Do you know how to cook?” I answer honestly, no—figuring that if a man is truly interested in me, he’ll work with me to perfect my imperfections.
I’ll be clear…I’m not a crazed feminist that believes no woman should cook for her man nor am I flat out refusing to cook. It’s just that I don’t like to cook, I’m impatient and I’m busy; besides a bottle of Sutter Home, a carton of Almond milk, some Fiji water and leftovers from Olive Garden …my frig is empty—I have no groceries.
Who knows…maybe I’ll enroll in a cooking class or something since it seems that my brother (although discreetly) is telling me that I just might not be wifey material. Ouch…that stings!
Fellas, is my brother right…is a way to a man’s heart still through his stomach? Ladies, should I be ashamed that I’m almost 30, AA, raised amongst cooking women and still can’t hold my own in front of a stove? Should my sistah-gurl rights be revoked?
..Ugghh I hate it when people say they can’t cook. If you can read, you can cook. Get a 1,2,3 cookbook and practice. Nothing fancy, just the basics. And with practice, you will make it.
..As far as revoking your rights, I would say no because you are a successful woman who does not depend on anybody for anything. I would say that cooking is just an added perk for any person. Now if cooking is the way to the man’s heart, then what’s the excuse for all the girls that can cook AND have everything going for them?? I think the reason that many of us (goal-oriented and driven) may be single still because they are intimidated by our independence and feel as if they have nothing to bring to the table. None of which, deal with cooking. Who wants to be with somebody because they can cook, but can’t carry a decent conversation?? It’s possible that you not knowing how to cook could be the bond that you and “the one” may share….by him teaching you…
Thanks for the comment, Liz! Next time I’m at the bookstore, I’m definitely going to get me a 1, 2, 3 cookbook…lol…loved that !