I sometimes have these kind of funny problems in life. Not the kind that completely fuck you up — those I handle surprisingly well. More like these small, human situations that everyone else just laughs at, while I’m standing there, sweating my ass off.

It always catches me off guard when I realize I don’t know something that feels so obvious. And there I am, staring at it like an idiot, wondering how the hell I ended up here again at thirty-six.

These are not life-ruining problems. Unfortunately

Recently I was at my boyfriend’s parents’ place for a birthday celebration, and we were doing preparations. My mother-in-law and I were breading schnitzels and getting them ready for frying. While doing that, we were chatting, and I was trying to be natural and pleasant, fun and social, myself and empathetic. Just enough so I wouldn’t come off as a total pushover and so the atmosphere wouldn’t get awkward.

A bit of thin ice

It was a bit of thin ice, that breading. It could easily crack — and with it any illusion of how well I can cook. But there wasn’t any other, more straightforward way to be useful, so I told myself it would somehow just pass and nothing would happen.

And then… the oil happened

When we had all the schnitzels coated, we moved upstairs to the kitchen to fry them. My mother-in-law took out two pans, one big and one small, and started pouring oil into them.

At that moment I realized I had a problem. I had never deep-fried schnitzels. I widened my eyes at the amount of oil filling the pan and tried to keep a neutral face. But inside, there was lightning going on in my head about what to do. I was thinking how big of a problem it would be to figure out how to fry them. I knew it probably wouldn’t be such a big difference, but you know how it is with any first time in the kitchen…

Ehm… okay, noted

I don’t know how it happens, but sometimes life throws me into these completely ridiculous situations where, at my age, I should already know how to make certain dishes or at least have some experience with them — and I have none.

Flashback — The moment I realized I don’t actually know how to cut a chicken

Like the last time when I was in Ecuador and we were cutting up a chicken for lunch, and I was told to portion the whole thing. I just stared at that entire chicken, holding some kind of knife, not knowing where to start. I was thirty, wondering if I should already know how to do this or not.

With the knife in my hand, I thought about it for a bit, and then a local volunteer, an 18-year-old Ecuadorian girl, really cool, noticed my hesitation and immediately asked if she should do it. I handed her the knife, because I had no idea what to do, and she started hacking that chicken into pieces like it was nothing, chatting the whole time like it was no big deal. I was wondering where we, as educated Europe, went wrong.

Me and meat again. Cool

To this day I laugh at that story, and it never even crossed my mind I’d end up in a situation like that again. Once again, I was standing over meat, not sure what to do…

Outwardly though, I didn’t show anything. I acted like a hero, calm voice, relaxed, and told my mother-in-law to just leave it to me, because it was obvious she had a lot of other things to do for the celebration, and at least I could be useful. I hoped I managed to produce a believable amount of confidence and ease so nothing would show.

How long are those bastards supposed to stay in that oil??

The door clicked shut and my brain started sweating. How long are those bastards supposed to stay in that oil?? And when is it even done?! And what if it’s raw inside?? When I can’t see anything!? I was racking my brain over the writhing pieces of breaded meat, hoping my deodorant would hold up and that after this kind of stress I wouldn’t just end up smelling at the party.

My inner bitch is having the time of her life

I could feel my inner bitch smirking at me for not knowing something so trivial. Nose up, of course, as always, telling me to at least look confident while doing it, if I want to convince everyone here what a great cook I am…

Fuck, no time to Google!

I suppressed the urge to quickly run off and google what to do, because it was clear to me it would just be a desperate move for relief, and by the time I got back, everything would be burnt. I didn’t dare turn off the stove at that moment — I didn’t want the schnitzels to soak up oil like a sponge and maybe become inedible.

Trying to telepathically communicate with schnitzels…

While it was sizzling, I strained my brain cells and tried to telepathically get information from the schnitzels about whether they were done or not…

In the end, I only burned four schnitzels and everyone had something to eat. My mother-in-law was kind. The celebration went on and my reputation remained… let’s say stable. And that bitch inside me? She just scoffed. Of course. I’m sure she’ll be ready again next time.