First, you are not alone. If you think that you’re a glitch to the feminine species who seem to be equipped with natural skills in whipping up food that tastes good, I repeat you are not alone.

Second, there’s actually hope for you. Society seems to align us into a stereotype that cooking should be innate in a woman, but trust me cooking maybe a talent for some. But sometimes, it’s a skill to be learned.

I know, because I am one of those girls.

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It all started with the dislike of the wet market. I was young and maarte, (there’s no other word that is more accurate than this) whenever Nanay would ask me to accompany her in the market I would just end up making faces because this wet mud never stops getting on my feet. It doesn’t help that one of my pet peeves is the squishy sound of wet slippers. After a few more tries, we both got the idea that the situation made me an irritated person, so mother ended up with kuya for company. If my memory serves me right, I know it worked pretty well because he would always come home with a live little fish or shrimp to play with. I was happily left alone with my books, dolls, or whatever I may fancy doing during that time.

Eventually, Kuya was the one trained to do the cooking. It was like the natural flow of activities: go to the market, clean the fishes, sort the vegetables, and then cook for lunch. On the other hand, weekends meant that I need to finish my school works. I became the resident geek who prioritize her studies, while my brother took the role of the cook.

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It was by the book learning from me; once Tiya asked me to take charge in cooking rice. Ha! A cooking assignment! I can do this!  I can’t remember how old I was back then, and I also can’t remember the next step after the rice has been washed. Should I put water in it or not? I haven’t read anything about rice before and “googling” things wasn’t an option back then. I debated for 5 minutes whether to put water or not. Well, there’s no water in it whenever we eat rice. So I guess, it doesn’t need any. I wasn’t gifted with enough common sense yet to know that it needs water to boil and to be cooked. A few minutes later a weird smell rafted through the house. The rice wasn’t saved from being burnt and I stayed away from the kitchen. Up to this day, it was still one of my classic childhood stories.

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Years later the only thing I became confident in cooking were pizza rolls and hotdogs. The egg was still a mystery because it always end up scrambled. Sorry I can’t help it if it’s too attached to the frying pan.

When I was in college, I made a strawberry panna cotta. I saw a recipe on a magazine and decided to give it a try. I followed it step by step but it seems that I end up putting too many gelatin leaves. Lo and behold, it wasn’t even edible! Hahaha! I can laugh at it now, yet that day I felt like the recipe betrayed me. It made me even more frustrated that I spent two-days-worth of allowance for that.

There was also a time when Hong Kong style noodles was one of my favorite food, so I tried making my own. I fried the pancit canton and came to realize that it actually needs a different type of noodles for it to be achieved. From then on, I started calling it as “experiments” instead of cooking. At least if I fail, it wouldn’t be so bad since it was meant to be an experiment anyway. Experiments don’t always end well.

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You might wonder why I am writing about these failure stories, it’s because lately there has been some developments in the Department of Kitchen Experiments. I am now learning how to cook – just a little, nothing extravagant. If I open a restaurant now the menu would be comprised of sautéed vegetables, adobong sitaw, and baked macaroni. Thanks to the rice cooker, I can now be tasked with the sinaing, and thanks to an easier recipe I was able to make an edible panna cotta. I almost cried when I found out that it can be eaten.

I came up with this principle that if I really really really love eating it, I should learn how to cook it. And that’s a real challenge since I do love to eat. Right now, I am acquainting myself with different pasta and fried chicken recipes. These thoughts actually came to mind when I finished eating the spicy Buffalo wings I made for launch. Yes, it’s a proud moment for me because I can finally cook edible food!

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To the girls who don’t know how to cook but who wants to learn, yes it is possible. You may start from scratch – or should I say burnt? – and you might end up surprising yourself that what you cooked can end up delicious. Go for the simple recipes first, like the Buzzfeed ones that unexpectedly shows up in your feed, or maybe ask your brother/mother/sister/whomever better than you.

If your family shies away from being the taste-testers, go bring it out to your friend or colleagues! Just make sure they’re hungry so it would taste yummy. Haha! Kidding. (Or maybe not). Do not merely eat, but familiarize yourself with the flavors that food can bring. You might not end up a chef, but it is equally satisfying to cook something good for yourself. Or maybe someday, you can gather the people you love the most and say:

Come one, come all, a feast has been prepared for you all.

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P.S. And if you need an extra push go watch Ratatouille or A Hundred Foot Journey. It has served as a foolproof cooking inspiration for me.

Once I was seven years old, my mama told me,

“Go make yourself some friends or you’ll be lonely.”

Once I was seven years old

It was a big big world, but we thought we were bigger

Pushing each other to the limits, we were learning quicker

You’re a bright young girl who was born with rose colored glasses. Most of my memories of you had already crumbled with time, but I also have vivid ones that I would never forget. There was the time when you didn’t hesitate to join an acting competition at school; a tear-jerking moment was needed to be shown, as you pretended that the doll was your mother. The crowd scared you but behind stood Nanay, cheering you on. Seeing her standing there was enough to melt the nervousness away. I could no longer remember if you won or maybe another person gets to take home the prize, still you were happy that you didn’t back out.

I’ve also lost count of the days that you pretended to be a contestant from Little Miss Philippines. Your relatives would always coax you to perform, and now it makes me wonder where did you get that showy part of you? Oh how they would laugh when you said that your talent is to eat a live chicken. I’m sure there’s video of you, walking on your kiddie pool with one hand waving in a pageant-like manner. You’re a real life Olive straight out from the Little Miss Sunshine movie. And when asked the famous question of what do you want to be when you grow up? The answer was consistent: To be a doctor.

Yes, you may be a shy girl at times but when the situation calls for it, you become a fighter. Remember that time when you jumped off the stage to avoid being tagged in a game of chase? Although I can’t really figure out if it was a 20-second-act of bravery or stupidity; you landed wrongly and eventually earned your first scar on the knee. Back then, you were also grade conscious that you cry whenever you do not belong in the top of the class list. Now looking back, you can proudly say that learning how to bike on your own was a greater achievement than the medals you’ve earned.

Once I was eleven years old, my daddy told me,

“Go get yourself a wife or you’ll be lonely.”

Once I was eleven years old

Something about that glory just always seemed to bore me

‘Cause only those I really love will ever really know me

But just like in every story, some conflict were bound to happen. The first part was too much of a buildup, isn’t it? Now there’s no easy way to recount how the walls started to crumble. How the puzzle pieces doesn’t fit anymore. You were eleven, still a bit young to understand it all. It was too difficult to listen through the screams or to see through the tears. Up until now maybe you still wrap them through metaphors.

Books had been your escape. You just buried yourself page after page of all the books you can hold on to. No regrets on that though, for they have been your constant companion in life. You read The Diary of a Young Girl and was inspired by the vulnerability of Anne Frank. Her own honesty pushed you to start your own journal. Up to this day, these pages still hold your secrets, your frustrations, and your joys.

There were triumphs and failures. You gained some and lost some in the long process of growing up. But if I were given the chance, I’d like to be there for you when you thought that you weren’t good enough to create art. I wish I could have told you that we are all moving in a different pace, that the fruitfulness of others in their craft doesn’t mean that yours can’t be good. How I wish that I could be there when you compared yourself to others and decided to give up. I would have shaken you with a reminder that comparison only robbed you years and years of practice that could have made you grow. But maybe, just maybe, it was also a part of your artistic journey.

Once I was twenty years old, my story got told

Before the morning sun, when life was lonely

Once I was twenty years old

Once I was twenty years old, my story got told

I was writing about everything I saw before me

Once I was twenty years old*

So dear 7-year-old self, this has gotten longer than I expected. And quite frankly I don’t know how to end it. If we were in a coffee shop together, I know that we could spend hours telling each other stories, reminiscing about the experiences that we went through.

Honestly, I don’t know if you could look you in the eye and tell you of how proud you are of what we’ve become (that may be a dangerous train of thought, but right now maybe we’re just a little bit lost). One thing that I admire about you is your courage. Your boldness to pursue the things that you wanted, even if you encountered roadblocks ahead. I’ve lost that muchness over the years.

Hope still remains in my heart for our comeback. Your 23-year-old self is about to go out of the woods. Maybe this phase is a way to be brand new. Maybe being stuck in a rut is also a time to heal from wounds. A time to be more honest with myself.

As we go forward from here, please lend me that courage. Let my childlike heart beat again.

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*Lyrics from Lukas Graham’s Seven Years