I’m going to start cooking more.
I’m going to actually start cooking.
I figure if I put it out there, publicly, some obligatory reflex will kick in and I’ll actually do it.
I cooked a lot more when I was in university. I made sweet and sour meatballs, (good enough to take to parties), fried chicken, even my own special way of preparing ichiban noodles (boil the noodles, drain the water, add Cheez Whiz into the pot so it melts then sprinkle the whole thing with MSG-infused noodle seasoning). I’d also bake banana bread and cheese biscuits and blueberry muffins that were really quite delectable.
I think this diligence in domesticity was a carry over from growing up where we had three square meals a day. Mom and Dad made sure we had good hearty, stick-to-your –ribs farm meals. Meat. Pototos. Vegetables from the garden. Farm raised chickens. Rhubarb crisp.
I don’t know when exactly it happened but for the last few years the extent of my culinary craftsmanship centers around how to prepare my eggs (scrambled? boiled?) or whether or not I should eat my cereal with milk or with yoghurt.
I’m thinking about holding small informal dinner parties. If I send the invites out, then I’ll be forced to cook something that takes longer than three and a half minutes to prepare.
Chicken and vegetable red Thai curry perhaps. But then I’ll have to figure out what wine pairing goes with Thai food. Maybe avocado, mango and pineapple salad with pistachios. I’ll have to figure out what protein will go with that. Then again, I’ve found a sumptuous looking, rather idiot proof seafood stew recipe I could always try. Seafood= white wine then serve with toasted foccacia drizzled in olive oil.
Good thing is most of my friends are not picky eaters. I only have one vegetarian friend but she’s not a die-hard vegetarian and usually is more than willing to eat around the meat in her meals.
Weirdly enough, I really enjoy to cooking. I like the chopping and stirring and tasting. I don’t know why I don’t take the time to cook wonderful meals for myself.
Well maybe I do.
I don’t find eating leftovers for three days in all that desirable. And for some reason I have “issues” with leftovers that are more than two days old. Oftentimes, when I’m exhausted from work, popcorn really does suffice.
Oddly, I also really like reading cookbooks. I gravitate to the recipe book section in bookstores and at least once a month by a “Fine Cooking” or “Cooking Light” magazine. I like looking at the pictures, mulling over the ingredients, visualizing procedure.
I often come sooooo close to executing a gourmet meal. I’m trying to convince myself that even if the end result doesn’t taste perfect, the whole process is so methodically cathartic. Creative yet practical. And, because I am notorious for thinking over, around, behind and through EVERYTHING this whole cooking thing has the potential for being somewhat therapeutic. As Kafka once said “So long as you have food in your mouth, you have solved all questions for the time being.”
An evening of friendship, food and a temporary solution to all questions.
How tempting is that?