I have successfully avoided telling my sister that I am taking this cooking series. She’s an amazing cook, and we have this weird competitive thing anyway. She is the first born, so I’ve spent 33 years trying to show her how cool I am.

In the meantime, she has spent 33 years trying to show me that she will always be cooler.

Handball?  Ass kicked.

Math?  Schooled.

Art?  Penciled out.

Music? Major dweeb.

Beauty?  Honorable mention.

Cool ride? School bus.

Amazing baker?  4000 failed pie crusts.

Equestrian? Horses are scary.

Master of all things European?  ‘Le Failure’ (sp?)

She is always is supreme.

However, we are both controlling , and we always think our certain way is the best way. So bring that into the kitchen, and let’s suffice it to say that things do not always go well.

Last summer we had an unfortunate Tapatio Debacle . I had made scrambled eggs and (to my taste) over-seasoned them in a way that I thought she would enjoy. She loves her flavors. Needless to say, she did not like them. She had a frown. I was annoyed, and when she added hot sauce to them after plating, I started a fight. Ridiculous in hindsight.

Unfortunately,  the result of our fight  involved an emergency call to Super Shuttle and an early flight out.

Her parting shot was: Well she’s not a chef. I should be able to season the scrambled eggs the way that I want.

Not a Chef. The words rang in my already steaming ears.

I immediately enrolled in a professional cooking course.

I NEED THERAPY.

All of that said, you can see how I’ve tried to avoid the subject with her. I’m really doing this for me, but somehow I can still hear her (or maybe my) voice.

Well, it’s not the CIA or Cordon Bleu.

She’s going to think it’s some half-assed local cooking class. The Puck thing will be laughable to her.

But I need to tell her because everyone we know, but she and Grandmere (who doesn’t have e-mail) is reading my updates.

So when I finally, after 4 months, confessed that I had been going to cooking school and writing these diaries, I was admittedly concerned.

It was over the phone.

” I’m taking these cooking courses. Umm, they are really hard. Umm, but fun. I think? And cool? A little?” I said.

“Yeah. Grandmere told me,” she replied. (But she doesn’t have e-mail!)

I was busted.

“Well, they are really hard and kinda intense.”

“Is it at that little place by your house?” she asked, having seen it before.

“Yeah,” I replied lowly.

Mustering up confidence, I added, “The instructor is very well-known. She knows Wolfgang Puck.”

She waited and muttered, “Well, at least you’ll learn how to make a good California pizza.”Grrr.