Maybe I've been exposed to one too many chick flicks in my lifetime, but there is something I find quite sexy about a man cooking. Not in that skilled and swift, Top Chef kind of way (though I could definitely watch Tom Colicchio cook for an hour), but more like that smooth and sultry, Mr. Big letting Carrie have a taste of veal off the tip of a spatula kind of way.
Hot.
So of course, as with all other qualities I have found attractive in other men, I've attempted to emulate it as best I could to varying degrees of failure.
Before Sam and I moved into this loft, I cooked quarterly, mostly for special occasions, and almost always badly. It's not that I couldn't follow a recipe, because I could; it's just that I didn't. Growing up, my mom never used cookbooks when cooking. She would grab handfuls of vegetables, scoopfuls of spices without once consulting a recipe. So I thought it must be innate, something instinctual, something that I erroneously thought I had.
When we first started dating, I would occasionally ask Sam over for a home-cooked dinner. I would clean the house, spend an hour creating a playlist on iTunes, light candles. I certainly followed the recipe for romance. When it came to the food, however, there was seldom a recipe in sight.
Once, I made what in my head equated to a chicken piccata that had so much lemon in it that it was practically a ceviche with capers dumped on it. Another time, I attempted chicken curry (out of a box, even!), but halfway through putting it together, realized I did not have enough curry for the pounds of potatoes and carrots I bought (because I did not follow the instructions on said box). In my haste to run out and find some more boxed curry (which I couldn't), I left my keys at home and locked myself out of the building.
The coup de grace that ended my solitary cooking endeavors came when I thought I could replicate (with ease) my favorite egg-battered sole
As we were still finding our way through this newborn relationship we had, Sam choked it all down, disastrous dish after disastrous dish, periodically saying that it was interesting or not that bad. They were all bad. I knew it, and he knew it, and by the time we were comfortable with each other, I was no longer allowed to cook unsupervised.
Which eventually grew into a different problem altogether. We simply did not know how to work together. Neither wanted supervision, yet both of us watched each other with keen skepticism, convinced we knew a better way to do whatever the other was doing. An evening of cooking would quickly unravel to become a clash of the titanic egos.
Not that I was delusional and somehow forgot about all the bad stuff I had ever made. But I gave myself credit for at least going down swinging. Sam's idea of cooking long consisted of a Safeway rotisserie chicken and some ready-mixed salad, and I just could not surrender to his advice.
I don't know how, but eventually, after several fights and meals prepared in ire, we moved out of opposition and took our respective places as teammates in the kitchen. It probably soothed his nerves to see the recipe for whatever I was making sit prominently on the counter. I admitted to myself that I did not know better than recipes, did not know better than Sam, and that I was no savant. A few successful outcomes then gained his trust, and now, when he offers to help, I no longer suspect that his aid is merely a ruse to keep me close and within reins' distance.
Last night, we made meatloaf together from a tried and true recipe. Sam acted as sous chef, mincing shallots and cubing slices of bread, while I put all the ingredients together.
It wasn't romantic, no lingering glances or gentle brushes of fingertips. This was purely practical, straight-forward cooking, and it was wonderful. We stood right alongside each other, each to our tasks, and I felt that he had the confidence in me I always wish he had when I was ignoring recipes, before I earned it by following them. After dinner, he even said that this meatloaf could be a "company dish," one we make for friends and family.
That's a pretty good sign for us, coming from where we've been. Where I've been. Maybe I have a shot at being that sexy guy in the kitchen after all.
So of course, as with all other qualities I have found attractive in other men, I've attempted to emulate it as best I could to varying degrees of failure.
Before Sam and I moved into this loft, I cooked quarterly, mostly for special occasions, and almost always badly. It's not that I couldn't follow a recipe, because I could; it's just that I didn't. Growing up, my mom never used cookbooks when cooking. She would grab handfuls of vegetables, scoopfuls of spices without once consulting a recipe. So I thought it must be innate, something instinctual, something that I erroneously thought I had.
When we first started dating, I would occasionally ask Sam over for a home-cooked dinner. I would clean the house, spend an hour creating a playlist on iTunes, light candles. I certainly followed the recipe for romance. When it came to the food, however, there was seldom a recipe in sight.
Once, I made what in my head equated to a chicken piccata that had so much lemon in it that it was practically a ceviche with capers dumped on it. Another time, I attempted chicken curry (out of a box, even!), but halfway through putting it together, realized I did not have enough curry for the pounds of potatoes and carrots I bought (because I did not follow the instructions on said box). In my haste to run out and find some more boxed curry (which I couldn't), I left my keys at home and locked myself out of the building.
The coup de grace that ended my solitary cooking endeavors came when I thought I could replicate (with ease) my favorite egg-battered sole
As we were still finding our way through this newborn relationship we had, Sam choked it all down, disastrous dish after disastrous dish, periodically saying that it was interesting or not that bad. They were all bad. I knew it, and he knew it, and by the time we were comfortable with each other, I was no longer allowed to cook unsupervised.
Which eventually grew into a different problem altogether. We simply did not know how to work together. Neither wanted supervision, yet both of us watched each other with keen skepticism, convinced we knew a better way to do whatever the other was doing. An evening of cooking would quickly unravel to become a clash of the titanic egos.
Not that I was delusional and somehow forgot about all the bad stuff I had ever made. But I gave myself credit for at least going down swinging. Sam's idea of cooking long consisted of a Safeway rotisserie chicken and some ready-mixed salad, and I just could not surrender to his advice.
I don't know how, but eventually, after several fights and meals prepared in ire, we moved out of opposition and took our respective places as teammates in the kitchen. It probably soothed his nerves to see the recipe for whatever I was making sit prominently on the counter. I admitted to myself that I did not know better than recipes, did not know better than Sam, and that I was no savant. A few successful outcomes then gained his trust, and now, when he offers to help, I no longer suspect that his aid is merely a ruse to keep me close and within reins' distance.
Last night, we made meatloaf together from a tried and true recipe. Sam acted as sous chef, mincing shallots and cubing slices of bread, while I put all the ingredients together.
It wasn't romantic, no lingering glances or gentle brushes of fingertips. This was purely practical, straight-forward cooking, and it was wonderful. We stood right alongside each other, each to our tasks, and I felt that he had the confidence in me I always wish he had when I was ignoring recipes, before I earned it by following them. After dinner, he even said that this meatloaf could be a "company dish," one we make for friends and family.
That's a pretty good sign for us, coming from where we've been. Where I've been. Maybe I have a shot at being that sexy guy in the kitchen after all.
I love it! I've definitely had those kitchen battles, as my measurements consist of "some" and "some more", and my recipe-following accomplices rarely understand. I don't like anyone one in the kitchen when I cook. Working as a team is something I haven't quite learned yet, but perhaps I will someday :)
ReplyDeleteGlad to see I'm not the only one that doesn't believe in measurements. =) And I always thought I played so well with others. . .
ReplyDelete