Kiss the Cook

Cooking. I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns. I can’t watch Top Chef without breaking out in hives.

Like anything else in life some times you gotta do what you gotta do. When you’ve put so much takeout into your system that it alters your DNA or the waitress at the diner knows what you’re going to order before you sit down it’s time to bring out the pots and pans.

I have an aversion to all things cooking. Pans cause panic (I’m actually going to have to use AND clean them) and pots give me the willies. I stare at all the cooking utensils until my eyes glaze over. And mixing bowls! Let’s not even go there. ::shiver::

(As a side note that makes absolutely no sense, I love playing Café World on Facebook. I can do all the cooking without actually having to do all the cooking.)

First there’s the meal planning. What shall we have? Spaghetti? No, too messy. Meatloaf? Nothing more than a glorified hamburger. How about we throw something on the grill! No matter that it’s minus 20 degrees out with gale force winds.

I know! Roasted chicken. Well, that goes over like a lead balloon. Just because I’ve made it the last three times I’ve cooked doesn’t mean it’s not a good suggestion, unless you take into account that I have only cooked three times in the past three months.

My husband, who is quite familiar with my aversion to cooking, likes to joke that the propane in our tank rarely drops an ounce because I don’t use the oven. Silly man, of course I use the oven. I crank it up in the morning and open the door to warm the kitchen.

So it’s off to the store I go. It is way too warm inside and way too crowded. As I plow through the aisles trying to remember what I went in there for I step around a little boy having the tantrum to beat all tantrums while mommy warns, “Raymond, I’m going to count to three…one, two…”.

Then there is the monstrous line at the deli counter where a man is ordering a quarter pound of every lunch meat that’s on sale. Take a number the sign says. Pffft, I say.

Wouldn’t you know I come across a woman standing with her cart in the MIDDLE of the flippin’ cereal aisle trying to figure out if she wants Shredded Wheat or Captain Crunch. (I say go for the sugary goodness.) She_will_not_move. I clear my throat to get her attention but I’m ignored. I say “excuse me,” to no avail. So I do what any polite shopper does…I nip her heals with my grocery cart. Mission accomplished.

By now I’m getting cranky. I want to go home and have pizza delivered. I want to put the pots and pans away until next month. Suddenly I am blindsided by a blazing hot flash and quickly realize I desire nothing more at that very moment than to strip off my clothes and stand naked in front of the frozen peas.

Back home the drudgery begins. I line a baking pan with non stick foil (gotta love that stuff), clean the chicken, throw it in the pan, slop some barbeque sauce on it (might as well spice it up a bit) and toss it in the oven. As it bakes I get out the frozen vegetables and rolls. I set the table and hope for the best.

Ding! Dinner is ready!

Ding! Dinner is finished! What the hell? I slaved over cold chicken and a bottle of barbeque sauce only to get a mere 15 minutes of family bonding at the dinner table in return for my extraordinary culinary efforts? I am so not appreciated.

The dreaded cleaning of the mess begins. I scrub my pots and pans with the fury of a woman possessed and promptly put them away until next month. I wipe my brow and quietly turn off the kitchen light.

My work here is done. Isn’t it? Do NOT tell me I heard someone (namely you husband) say they are hungry again.

Hang tight honey, next month will be here before you know it. I hear baked lemon chicken is quite good.