When I’m home alone I don’t cook. I’m a “live off of soup, salad, and sandwiches” kind of girl. I just don’t see the point of cooking for one.
When Drew’s home I don’t tend to cook either. Now, don’t assume that because I don’t cook that I can’t cook. I can. Drew’s come to my defence on that count many times.
Many years ago I used to dream of growing up to be a gourmet chef. I changed my mind when I determined how repetitive some aspects of mass cooking can be. Food allergies also helped damper my enthusiam for cooking as a profession. Apparently, I’m working at the right place if I ever change my mind and decide to take cooking classes. My college is home to one of the best cooking schools in the country.
Drew cooks and bakes. He enjoys it. I don’t.
Many years ago – back when we were first married – Drew volunteered to cook a meal and told me to get out of his kitchen. I did and have rarely been back.
I’ve been told I’m a good cook. I used to cook sauces from scratch. I have a talent for spicing dishes and still spice some of Drew’s concoctions on occassion.
My dad taught me to cook one summer when my mom and sister were visiting family overseas. I’m sure it was an act of self-defence. If I couldn’t cook he’d have had to suffer a series of horrible meals for weeks on end. Dad cooked all the big meals when we were kids – hams, roasts, turkeys. Mom’s specialty was home made soup and deserts. On her last visit she taught Drew to make soup. Yum!
Tonight I gave into the urge and put together a stir fry for dinner. Extra virgin olive oil. Red, yellow and green bell peppers. Sweet yellow onion. Mushrooms. Boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Secret spices for the sauce. I made enough so that I had some left over for tomorrow.
If Drew manages to read this entry from the sandbox he might die of shock. No worries though. I think I’ve got the cooking bug out of my system for at least another decade. Back to soup, salad, and sandwiches for me.