Cooking is one of my least-favorite activities on the planet. When I was single, I was the Queen of the Microwave Meals. The kitchen in my apartment was pristine, because it was rarely used. The stove looked brand-new.
I'm not sure when my aversion to cooking started. After all, I like to eat, so you'd think I'd like the process of making things to eat. Not so much.
I dutifully plodded through several years of 4-H. I was allergic to all the animals, so I couldn't raise livestock for 4-H, but did you know that there is a thriving culinary component to 4-H? Also, there is a booming horticulture contingent, as well. One year, I won First Prize at the Oregon Sate Fair for my fantastic onions. Really, it's a true story. Onions. First Prize. I'm not making this up.
Anyway, after my friend's mom tried diligently to teach 8 giggly pre-teens how to properly measure, stir, mix, bake, and cook all manner of things, I learned some decent skills. The summer between my junior and senior year of college, I was the head cook at a church camp over on the Oregon Coast. That was the hardest summer of my life, but I learned how to cook for large groups. For years afterward, I couldn't cook for myself, but if you asked me to put together a four-course dinner for 250, I was all over it.
When I met Jerry, he lived in Kentucky, and I lived in Oregon. Yes, we were one of the first internet romances. 11 years later, and I haven't killed him. And dumped his body in a shallow grave. Under the miles of blackberry bushes on our property. Not that I've ever thought about it.
The first time we met in person, he flew out to Oregon over Memorial Day weekend. I was still in that "wanting to impress" stage of the relationship, so I thought I would blow him away with a spectacular home-cooked meal. My menu was simple--a chicken and vegetable teriyaki stir fry.
It was an unmitigated disaster. My rice cooker broke, so I had to cook rice the old-fashioned way, on the stove top. The vegetables were limp and uninteresting. The chicken was overcooked and hard as a rock. But, I gamely served the meal, and Jerry, the poor unsuspecting guy, ate it.
Afterward, we were laughing about how truly awful dinner was. And since we were still in that goofy, romantic phase of our relationship, he took me into his arms, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, "If you love me, please don't EVER cook for me again."
Yesss! I was free of the oppressive yoke of chauvinistic tyranny! I would never be chained to the stove, my worth measured only by my ability with a frying pan and child-rearing capabilities! THIS was the man I was going to marry, for sure. The best bonus was, he COULD cook!
And so I did (marry him). And now I don't (have to cook). Now, I only cook if the mood strikes me. Which is rare. But it does happen occasionally. Whenever it does, I'll share the recipes that were either so intriguing, or so easy, that it prompted me to try them.
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