Cooking is the one thing in the world where I have complete and total control, unless Matt comes in and asks me to “make the apple crisp sweeter.” I mean, I do take requests. * wink * Recipes are merely guidelines; I rarely follow them to a tee. I prefer to remove this, sub that, remove that spice, add this spice, try that pan … oops, I nearly set the oven on fire!”
It allows me to be a little more relaxed in other areas of my life. Um, cough, cough, yeah, stop looking at me like that, please.
Anyway, I love the results of experimentation. I love the taste of freshness. I love that I can open my fridge, select five items, and make something fantastic from them. I certainly have my failures here and there, and I accept those and learn from them but it just feels and tastes so good.
I love the feel of dough in my hands–the transformation of water, flour, yeast, and salt as it becomes bread. I love the feel of raw chicken, the inside of a cavity when I’m slathering it with butter and herbs. I love the smell of hot cast iron. I love the sizzle of garlic and olive oil. I love the nibbles, the sticky, the drippy, the magic. I love it all!
Okay, I’m getting carried away, losing control. See? I can do it!
The downside to cooking is that eating out has become less enjoyable and Matt loves going out to eat and he’s not as sensitive to food like I am. He says I’m a “kill joy keeping him from getting his chicken wings and beer on” and this causes a lot of arguments:
I want soft tacos for dinner.
Okay, I got a tortilla recipe from Tim, so I’ll make them for dinner.
Why must the first thing out of your mouth be, “I’ll make them for dinner”? I was thinking Taco Bell.
Taco Bell is gross, Matt.
But it’s quick and you can stop on the way home from work.
But it’s gross and I can make soft tacos a million times better and you know you’re going to be all like, Mffffff mmmmm nomnomnom when you eat them. Like the pizza last night.
Fine, whatever. Make your fucking tacos.
Fine, I fucking will.
And the cats flee the room because they can’t handle the marital bliss. I’ve got to say, being married to me is like being on the receiving end of a very horny bull on steroids. I feel for Matt, I really do. He’s a great guy and deserves more head scratches and back rubs than I give him.
Thankfully, working in the kitchen is the one place where I can actually exercise patience. That’s the blessing. It’s probably the only time I ever stop talking and the results of me keeping my mouth shut are usually pretty good.
The curse is that it does cause Matt and I to bicker. Who thought that a man would be annoyed that his wife wants to cook so much?
Matt understands that the kitchen is where I wind down at the end of the day. It’s my sanctuary, my studio, and it’s full of warmth and good smells and fuzzy kitchen assistants. I try to understand that sometimes the man just wants to go out but why on Earth would I bring low-grade tacos into MY HOME?!?!?!
We’ve compromised over the years by being a little more selective about where we eat. I tend to lean toward ethnic food and, of course, the Gastro Pub. Matt tends to lean toward anything and will go where I drag him with a resounding, “Okay, but can I get a beer?”
I feel for the guy, he was raised on pork chops and applesauce and when I take him into a restaurant that isn’t a steak house, he gets lost. He doesn’t know how to read a menu and he doesn’t care to learn. That’s what I’m for. When we go out with friends he gives me a signal and sits with his menu open and waits for me to say, “The [insert entree here] looks good.” Then he orders that.
Now, I’m not a hyper foodie, I just like food and I like it done right. Nothing wrong with that. So, if I don’t want to drive all the way up to Riesterstown for the best damn tacos I’ve ever had in my life, I’m sure as shit going to make them at home.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
That.Was.Awesome.
By the way, regarding the horny bull on steroids http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K52DJGqnmDo