Yesterday I made pico de gallo at the bar.
It’s been one of my tasks for a couple of weeks now and after I was done last night, my colleague (who teaches me so much) said, “Your diced tomatoes look good today.”
I was elated.
For someone who never spent a lot of time in the kitchen growing up, it was an achievement to make something from scratch, efficiently.
It’s not that I come from a family that doesn’t cook. All the women in my family cook and they’re the types who cook in huge amounts to feed the entire family.
Enough pork trotter stew to feed 20. Enough fried bihun (Chinese vermicelli) to last 15 people an entire weekend. Jars of Christmas mince pies to give out to all the neighbours.
But somehow, I found myself in my 20s, not even able to chop veggies correctly.
At the bar, as my colleague watched me fumbling with the knife, she just showed me how to use it properly. Then told me to keep at it.
It didn’t matter that I sucked when I started. She didn’t say “You’re too slow!” and chase me out of the kitchen. “You’ll get the hang of it,” she said.
Yesterday, I took a little over half an hour to make enough pico de gallo for the whole night. That’s less than when I first started, and my chopped veggies look more decent too.
Practice makes progress.