I Don’t Cook

I don’t cook. I’ve been told I’m a decent assembler. And I have a few things that don’t suck – my pea soup, brisket, beef stew. Though several important people in my life don’t eat those things. Oh well. During the week, I only make dinner if Andrew has meetings. And then, it’s usually bacon & eggs. Or hot dogs. I can microwave a mean hot dog. Ask anyone.

On the weekends, if we have company, I’m a bang-up sous chef. Well, I’m not great with a knife (several bad hand cuts over the years – thank you to Dr. Katz, by the way) but I am very helpful, I’m told. (Or maybe that’s just to keep me from cooking. Not sure. More later.)

Andrew, on the other hand, is a terrific cook. It’s quite impressive. Though I doubt he’d admit it, he learned to cook to impress chicks. Hey, it worked with me way back when. I brag to my friends that I don’t have to make dinner. It sounds great. But in reality, it’s a little depressing. Preparing and serving food is really social. People look at you adoringly when you serve up Thai crab and shrimp cakes. I know, I’ve looked at Andrew adoringly when he does. I don’t know those looks. I know the look of “do I really have to eat this?” Not a look to envy. I promise.

On the other hand, I can have whatever I want. I can tell Andrew what I want all week and he’ll make it so. That’s pretty groovy. Tonight, scallops in garlic butter served with asparagus and basmati rice. Not bad for a Tuesday.

Why do I bring this all up? It’s all those darn food blogs. I’m strangely attracted to them. I can’t stop checking them out, but then there is the realistic me that knows I’ll never make any of those lucious sounding recipes. There’s a great list of food blogs at Food Porn Watch. And here’s one I need to send to Andrew — Danger! Men Cooking!

Bon Appetit.