I own two aprons, have a recipe card box, at least a dozen cook books, and yet… I tend to be a failure in the kitchen.
Now, I can brown taco meat and make a lovely pork chop, despite having been a vegetarian since 2001; I can follow instructions on single-serve freezer meals; I have only had one kitchen fire as an adult but I sure do know how not to bake garbanzo beans now; and, I am aware that the dog, cat and I all like the same brand of flavored popcorn.
As I rapidly approach that daunting third decade and since I am actively engaging in food-and-beverage-related shenanigans with someone who also doesn’t cook that much, I took a peek over my honey’s shoulder and… it costs HOW MUCH to go out to eat!?
At this rate, he will never buy me Valentino because I’m eating whatever is in my designer goods budget.
While it is all fine and good to fawn over someone while they calculate the correct tip amount, certainly I could attempt to be domestic. You know, waggle a plume of feathers around while putting out food just as hot as me (that was awful and I apologize.)
Recently, we tuned in to a virtual organ concert, because for some reason this man continually allows me to pick our activities. I thought it would be fun to go to the grocery store and cook up a recipe I found, together. Also, prove that I have value other than extremely lengthy text messaging abilities, a love of animals and an intense curiosity in the personal lives of celebrities.
Little did I know, keeping the dog out from underfoot while simultaneously keeping the cat off the counter and therefore away from the hot, very hot stove was practically a circus act. My recipe, by the way, was terrible. Smidge liked it though, or maybe that was the two sticks of trash butter for dessert.
But I didn’t want to give up. The beasts sensed my determination and have kept a careful distance when they see a skillet or a pot emerge from storage. Not only does this courtesy keep pet hair confetti out of my dishes, but they’re practically Sous Chefs in training. Smidge helps clean up any hand-shredded cheese that falls on the floor, while Cairo manages the counters. That's my only cooking with pets advice, by the way: shred the cheese first.
After two more attempts, I did it. I pan-fried gnocchi in a homemade garlic butter sauce, paired with some un-frozen veggies.
And I know I’m not just sitting here thinking “Oh look Shields, you did it, aren’t you clever, you made a pasta dish, har har har,” because unlike the first run of this recipe, I know I did better, thanks to the extra sets of eyes glued to my plate until the dishes are put away. Keep in mind, Cairo only steals low-hanging fruit, but when it’s really good-smelling he acts pretty and proper for a bite. Smidge smacks her tail to the carpet, loudly, just in case I didn’t know she wants some.
I approve. My test audience approves. Now… to test the endless pit that is a skinny man’s stomach.
It might not be Valentino worthy yet, but hey, a girl can try.
