Cooking...not my favorite thing, maybe one day I'll enjoy the process.

BLACKENED SHRIMP

1 lb. shrimp, shelled & deveined 1/2 c. oil 6 cloves garlic 2-3 tbsp. Blackened Seasoning 1 lb. shrimp, shelled & deveined 1/4 lb. of melted butter 1/2 c. oil 6 cloves garlic 2-3 tbsp. Blackened Seasoning Put seasoning and garlic in  a small bowl. Dredge shrimp through the mixture. Place a large skillet over a very high heat, and melt the butter. Place the shrimp in the skillet and turn heat down to medium. Cook on both sides for approximately 7 minutes (maybe less) each- pay attention to the shrimp as they cook quickly; when the shrimp curl, they are done. Optional – sprinkle the vegetables with the spice mix and sauté in the butter in the same skillet.

Should be easy right?   Read on...


I will be the first to admit that cooking is not in my repertoire of skills I excel at very well.  It's not that I haven't tried, more like it just is not meant to be.  Growing up, my mother made sure meals were always on the table, ready to be devoured by her always hungry brood.  These delectable dishes made their appearance without much help from my father, brother, or myself because mother liked the sanctuary of her kitchen undisturbed by any of us.

One of my favorite dishes was her blackened shrimp.  When I moved out and got my first apartment, I was determined at twenty-two to finally conquer the mystery of cooking this dish, my favorite one since I was ten.  I was living two states away and wouldn't be enjoying those spicy, melt-in-your-mouth morsels anytime soon.

Wandering through the grocery store, my excitement was building to a fevered pitch as I placed ingredient after ingredient in my cart.  Even though this was my first attempt at cooking it, my over confidence in my abilities led me to invite my boyfriend, Adam over to enjoy the meal.

“You’ll be eating good tonight,” I promised.

 “Okay,” he responded, reluctantly.  

I couldn’t blame him– memories of the last time I burned, I mean cooked dinner were still fresh in both our minds. 

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him.  “It’s my mother’s recipe.” 

“Okay,” he said again, more positively since having tried her cooking at Thanksgiving the year before, indelibly left a pleasant culinary imprint in his mind. They had much in common because the kitchen was Adam’s friend too since his cooking rivaled my mother’s at times.  His mother had taught him well.

I worked quickly to clean the shrimp and yummy spices were mixed in a bowl until the smell permeated the air causing me to sneeze a good ten minutes.  Definitely a good sign, I thought to myself, as I mixed the shrimp into the bowl.

Adam arrived just as the large black iron skillet, my mother gave me when I left, was hot and steaming.  I smiled at him as I emptied the bowl slowly and spreading the shrimp in a single layer.  “Seven minutes on each side,” my mother’s voice magically whispered in my ear, as I carefully made sure I didn’t flip them too soon.

The little smoke at first did not alarm me.  I figured a little smoke was normal, but certainly not a thick, dark blanket of smoke that overtook my kitchen in a matter of seconds.  Adam, whom was relaxing on the sofa, beer in hand heard my squeal and immediately burst into the kitchen and opened the front door to let the smoke out.   

Living in a high rise, the smoke went into the hall and set off the main fire alarm in the whole building.  The state-of-the-art alarm system, complete with an automated voice, directed people outside as the security guard made his way to my floor and finally my opened door with smoke still pouring outside. 

“Everything okay?” he shouted over the alarm, the resident manager wanting a status update yelled over the walkie talkie the guard held in his hand.

“I was cooking,” I said, my face red with embarrassment. 

“Cooking, huh? Smells good despite the black smoke,” he smiled, obviously feeling sorry for me and thankful it was nothing more serious.  “She was cooking,” he yelled into the walkie talkie, as the alarm shut off soon after. 

“Tell her not to do it again,” the resident manager responded.

Closing the door, Adam tried not to laugh and held me.  “I can’t even cook a simple shrimp dish!”  I cried, frustrated at the thought of having to live on microwave dinners for the rest of my life.  

“Don’t worry, that’s what I’m here for.”  Adam said soothingly.  “How about I do the cooking from now on? And you do the dishes.”     

“Deal.” I agreed, relieved.

Years later, Adam still does most of the cooking.  I feel blessed at having such patient husband whose friendship with the kitchen has flourished.  He is always experimenting with new dishes and refining old ones.  

I brave the kitchen and cook from time to time, the few dishes turn out quite well and thankfully I am not setting off anymore fire alarms.

When I do cook, my husband requests one dish in particular...blackened shrimp.