Wednesday, June 27, 2012
TABLE FOR ONE
Since that time I have heated things in the microwave, warmed edibles from cans on the stovetop, ordered dinners off menus. Tonight's fine dining experience at Casa del Gato y Chingón is black beans and rice, a delightful vegetarian experience, washed down with a fine City Utilities water in a CoxHealth cup. Don't laugh; that's a $24,000 mug, baby, and you don't want to know what I had to do to get it.
I loved to cook and I was great at it; I once made a raspberry mousse in chocolate purses — take that, boys. So I'm kinda pissed off at myself for not cooking a meal in seven months. The cookbooks collect dust atop the refrigerator. The mandolin slices nothing. The KitchenAid knives need sharpening.
The cupboards are filled with things like rice, black beans, yakisoba. There are eggs in the fridge. The freezer has pounds of tilapia; I can bake some fillets and share them with el gato so he won't feel the need to attack me in my sleep and dine on the Tower of Nom.
But there's no cooking here. There's no need, you see. What am I supposed to do, whip up a splendid supper for me? I'd feel stupid at putting out the effort. It's just me and Tiger, and he cares nothing about presentation. Such a gauche kitty.
I write these things not for sympathy — it's just my existence right now, and part of the reason for this blog is to chronicle life as I know it in this not-so-brave new world. I don't feel sorry for myself. No one is here to tell me not to cook. It's just that my heart's not in it, and I don't think it will ever be. I'm turning into one of those bachelors you see out on a Friday night, asking for a table for one, sitting with my nose in a book so I don't have to engage anyone in conversation as I eat for fuel. As long as I don't look up no one has to see what's behind my eyes. It's best that way.
Things change. I'm sorry you never got to try my chicken. It rocked the house.