Occasionally I attempt my hand at impersonating a domestic treasure. I’m taking medication for it.
So last night, I decided to cook supper for my beloved boyfriend. I should probably mention that, although I’ve got a drawerful of cooking books (attempts from family members to lead me down the path of domestic treasury), I don’t tend to follow recipes. Not even a little bit.
I might open a cookbook for inspiration and find a recipe that includes chickpeas, cumin, nan-bread, star anise and peaches. Hey, I’ve got a tin of chickpeas! But no cumin, nan-bread, star anise (huh?) or peaches… so let’s use… (open cupboard)… um… paprika instead of cumin, cous-cous instead of nan-bread, tuna instead of star anise aaaaand… chili instead of peaches.
The meals are generally christened “Sticky Stir-fry” or “Chicken a la Koekie”. Beloved Boyfriend, bless his cotton socks, eats all of my creations – usually with appropriate amounts of enthusiasm.
Right, back to last night. I decide to cook B.B. dinner. Now, what do we have in the fridge? What’s in the cupboards?
Once I’d amassed a satisfactory inventory of ingredients, I proceeded to chuck ‘em all into a pot. Shit, Pot A is getting too small. Transfer (now boiling) ingredients into Pan A. Too small. This is getting messy. More relocation of ingredients into two containers of Pan A and Pot B…
No problem, I pick the rest of it off the floor later. He’ll never know.
Upon completion, I phoned boyfriend (well, technically got him to phone me) and informed him that he had another concoction awaiting consumption. It actually wasn’t too bad…
After eating the meal, I informed boyfriend that as it’s his kitchen, he should probably clean the dishes (seeing as I’d used every pot and pan in the cupboard).
When you’re good, you’re good.