I Am Not a Cook

I just finished a rather lovely dinner that Sarge made.  I eat, but I don’t cook.  Last night, while watching Life Is Beautiful for the first time (what took me so long?), I ate another meal Sarge made.  And I cried.  Twice.  But that was the film, and had nothing to do with his cooking.  When it’s my turn to cook, we get take-out, which is probably safer for all involved.

I have tried to cook.  I have the burn scars and some unforgettable stories to prove it.  At Uni, I dumped a whole pot of soup in my lap.  I had my back turned and nobody could understand why I’d suddenly lost the power of speech.  One Thanksgiving, I volunteered to slice some carrots.  The carrots ended up fortified with iron.  From all my blood.  The blood that was spilled when I sliced my fingers as well as the carrots.  I threw out the bloody carrots, despite all those extra healthy minerals.

The first time I made popcorn, I burnt it.  I discovered I like it that way.  Now I burn it on purpose, and hope that the smoke detectors don’t go off when I do.

I pay people to help me cook now.  This is a good thing.  When I think I might try something, I always find something else I’d rather be doing.  I go to the movies.  Or the library.  Sometimes even the gym.  Or I stay home and sort out my filing cabinet.  My Italian Grandmother would turn in her grave if she knew I’d rather organise my bills than make gravy.  To freeze for later, of course.

It’s not that I hate cooking.  If there were no cooking there would be no eating.  I even like baking.  The best brownies are the ones I haven’t made myself.  In school, when we had to bring in something that we’d made ourselves; I’d always go in via the grocery store.  Entenmann’s made those A-plus muffins, not me.

Even though I may write on here very occasionally about the aftermath of my experiments with cooking and baking, it isn’t how I express myself.    If I write about it afterwards, from this very room, that just means we’re not living in a hotel because I’ve burnt a hole in the kitchen wall.

Saying that, I have nothing against people who choose to express themselves by decorating cakes, for example.  We have already established that I like baked goods.

It’s just that if I wrote on cake, I’d run out of room very quickly.

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