I am not a cook. Welllll I mean. I can cook. Sort of. But I’m not a COOK.
Weatherly– what in God’s crack are you talking about? Stop drinking wine before you type up blog posts.
Let me clarify.
Before about two weeks ago… I had never made a meal from scratch. I had never kneaded dough, or sauteed a mushroom or freaking –bought– meat from a butcher at the farmer’s market who, according to his nametag, spoke English and Arabic but did NOT speak “how much is a pound of meat oh god I’ve never bought chicken in my life that wasn’t already packaged what do I do what do I dooooo.”
Basically, my cooking repertoire consisted of Ramen (not the fancy kind), green beans (not the fancy kind), potato chips (not the fancy kind), and Spaghetti-Os (the fancy kind. With meatballs, obviously. I’m not a cretin.) Terms like “fricassee*” and “rolling boil” were just figments of words that I’d seen on tv and food blogs that I’d written off as witchcraft. I’m really not sure what led me to this want to cook. But I have an idea.
I pick up interests all the time, every day, always, and then I obsess. I’m always varying degrees of super-interested in something I’m crap at. Sometimes it’s juggling (which lasted the time it takes to google “getting good at juggling” and decide, “mhm. that’s a long paragraph. better not.”), sometimes it’s knitting ( I am very into favoriting things on Ravelry and and AND I’ve knitted several cowls, thank you very much, and my sister-in-law wears one I made when I’m around so I’m basically Anna Hrachovec on that front. Check that off the list), and sometimes it’s just listening through every episode of Mugglecast and writing down all predictions for the 7th Harry Potter book, and then proceeding to rewrite said book when it didn’t live up to the expectations set forth in said predictions. (I mean… what? This is totally just a hypothetical situation that has no basis in fact…)
Whatever it happens to be, I get so into it for however long, and then I just stop. It’s not like I got over it. I just wanted to try it on for size.
This is what cooking is. But I hope that it will last beyond the Juggling Line, and beyond the Knitting Quotient and just become something I do that I get good at. Because it’s pretty fun.
I get to eat at the end of it.
Which is pretty much all the motivation I ever need to do anything.
My dinner tonight consisted of: spinach fettucine from the Dekalb Farmer’s Market, (which I visited for the first time the other night and have since named “Mecca” and vowed to make pilgrimages to it for I cooked the mushrooms in an utterly ridiculous amount of butter and they taste almost like bacon in the savory crispy-juiciness. I’m drooling thinking about it even though I just finished a mouthful of it as I type. It’s like my brain knows there’s only a plateful left and it’s already making plans to convince me that I’m starving enough to make another serving.
Oh brain, you greedy bitch.
With the alfredo, I’m drinking a Montepulciano wine, the only wine I can name. I drank a Montepulciano in Italy (I’m told, though the memory’s hazy), in a tiny cafe tucked under an apartment that had clothes hanging from window to window across the road, watching my professor eat squid ink pasta and listening to a violinist as the sun went down in Rome.
I got this Montepulcianofor $7 in the farmer’s market, inching around strangers wearing sandals and socks searching for a wine cheap enough to justify drinking it all by myself, from the bottle if my one wine glass was dirty.
So, you know, basically the same situation.
What I’m saying is– my meal tonight is good enough to blog about. Cooking is something I really like. And it’s weird, because unlike knitting, or yoga, or roller derby, or any of the other hobbies I’ve taken up, I’m actually doing it. Like, for real for real. In real life. IRL. Right now.
Well, right now I’m laying in my bed with a serious case of food pregnancy, the side effects of which are paralysis of entire body, minus the fingers, and the gaining of 10+ lbs in one sitting. I’m going to look so cute chubs.
No pictures tonight because I’ve lost my fucking phone again. I swear, there’s no use for me having a phone. Well, except that it’s serving as my camera because I’ve lost my SD card for the expensive camera I bought on a whim and have never used. Weatherly. Look at your life. Look at your choices. Get a babysitter.
Instead, I’ve intercut pictures of Italy, which I miss like home even though I was there a negligible 14 glorious days. Ciao!
*I still have no effing clue what fricassee means. Is it some type of tying mechanism with string? Does it involve cheese? Am I going to Google it to find out?
I would say all of these questions have the same answer, but, again, I have no idea if the answer for the first two is also hell-to-the-right-hand-of-no like it is the last one. Alas, another mystery unsolved because of those meddling kids.