I really enjoy cooking. It’s my zen time. Some people knit, some people paint (although I do a little of that as well)- I cook. It’s not that it’s calming so much. I’m nothing if not a perfectionist when I’m cooking. I’ve been known to throw entire meals out, not because they necessarily tasted bad, but because they simply didn’t turn out the way I intended. It’s one of my neuroses.
It’s just comforting. I know what to do. I know how to do it. I can listen to NPR and cook until the cows come home. I don’t mind the dishes. I don’t mind the cuts, the burns, the ruined key lime tarts, the cakes that fall, the overcooked fish. I love it all. And I’d like to think I’m pretty good at it as well. (Maybe that’s why Carolina’s still friends this me)
Sadly, in light of recent events, the kitchen is no longer the sanctuary it once was. Which is really a shame, because I can’t cook for fewer than 6, which benefited my housemates quite a bit. For a while, I made dinner for everyone at least once a week. I made an early Thanksgiving dinner, and over Labor Day weekend, OtherFemale’s parents stayed with us for a wedding, and I put out a great spread for all the relatives she had in town, key lime tarts not withstanding (my key lime pie was the SHIT though.) The first weekend we were all in the house, we had a massive housewarming BBQ. I like a house full of food and full of people enjoying the food. That’s how I grew up. But that’s alright. Honestly, I find a strange comfort in banishing (some of) my housemates back to boxed macaroni and cheese, frozen risotto, and tomato sauce out of a can. I can’t imagine a fate much worse than eating crap food.
Luckily, I happen to know some fabulous people willing to let me cook in their kitchens for a free meal. Now I just have to find some room for all the fun new toys I’m hoping Santa will bring me. And the ones I already bought. And hope the housemates don’t break them like they did my stemless champagne flutes.