I am the offspring of an execrable cook. Don't mind about that; my mother wouldn't have. She knew she wasn't much of a cook--wasn't interested in cooking--but I was, so I got to do a lot of it before I left home. And after.
Several years after she was widowed, my mother remarried and moved to Florida, which, I admit, was a great place to visit, especially during the years I was working as a theatre reviewer and investigative reporter as needed, and training and showing my horse. I was tired most of the time.
But a couple of weeks at Mom's? Heavenly. She and Ed lived one block from their community's swimming pool. Great shopping was all around them. Not to mention actual salt-water beaches. But I did have to earn my keep; I cooked for them whenever we were home in the evening, usually a triple recipe so she could freeze two meals and avoid eating out more than necessary.
Sometimes, she asked for a special meal. One time it was for a Spanish sort of dish for a party with a Spanish theme at the community center. I honestly can't recall what I made, but it was, in any case, something I had invented and it probably didn't have a name. Unfortunately, Mom said they had to make little cards with the name of the dish so people would know what they were eating as they scavenged the buffet table. Yipes! The only Spanish I knew was Chili con Carne, and tacos. Then I recalled a phrase in Spanish I saw day after day on the New York Subway for many years. "Pelligroso del tren" I told her was the name of the dish. She asked me what it meant. I said, "The train is dangerous." She laughed and made out the card for the table. But I was wrong, as it happens. I misremembered the NY subway Spanglish. The dish actually should have been called El tren es peligroso.
Still, I'm glad no one took exception to my mangling of Spanish, or I might have been treated to the verbiage below.