Those who know me know that I love food. My friend Maddie will tell you that I can't really love food because I'm also slim. I, however, beg to differ. My slimness is thanks to my obsessive-compulsive desire to stay the size I am and aided by my love of everything exercise related. When it comes to food, I love the smells, the colors, the sounds, of course the tastes and the associations and memories it conjures. I like to try things I've never had or have had once but didn't care for because of it's method of preparation. What I don't like is cooking (which I realize is utterly unfortunate).
I do make a wonderful sous chef, though. I like to chop, slice, clean and prep. I like watching all of the ingredients combine to make a beautiful dish. I like coming up with the presentation; making the food look as utterly irresistible as it smells. Maddie has been able to get me to help a few times and D is, appropriately, known for asking me to prep things, make salads, etc. When faced the prospect of actually sitting down (or more accurately, standing and running around) and making the entire meal myself, I lose motivation.
It starts with gathering the ingredients. I have a bizarre aversion to grocery stores that is likely rooted in my distaste for people. I do like going to markets and interacting with the vendors (the guy who sells you the chicken is also the guy who raised and slaughtered said chicken. I trust him) and taking in the colors and aromas all around me. At grocery stores, though, you have mothers with obnoxious children flying around without looking, their carts loaded with foods, the second ingredient of which is "partially hydrogenated" something. Sugar usually isn't far behind. I do try to stick to the perimeter of grocery stores, wandering around poorly arranged produce sections, delis and gourmet cheese departments. But I somehow always end up in a place where everything is in some sort of container, screaming at you about how it's "fortified!" or "packed with protein!" or "100% whole grains!"
My grocery store across the street, the one that makes most sense for me to frequent, poses other issues for me. Let's say I want to make "garlic-miso pork chops with orange bell pepper and arugula" (featured in June's Bon Appetit magazine). Most of the components are straight-forward and easy to locate. Then again, there's miso. Trying to find "ethnic" ingredients in my local supermarket is a huge headache. You'll go down the aisle that seems most likely to contain, say, Asian sesame oil and it's nowhere to be found. Ask one of the employees who assaults you as soon as you walk in the door, seemingly eager to be at your beck and call, and still get nowhere (ask them where something like Cheetos are and you'll be led there straight away). Try to find that perfect cut of meat in the meat section and you're greeted with some sketchy looking cuts that seem to be sitting in an excessive amount of liquid or are so fatty that by the time you finished trimming you'd have barely enough for one portion (I should mention that this is a "high-end" grocer).
Yet, in my mind, I could easily be a wonderful, gracious hostess. A young, slim, sexy Martha Stewart (without the dewy lighting and definitely with more foul language. I guess it'd be a Martha Stewart meets Anthony Bourdain). I imagine myself making fabulous meals, with starters, salad, main course and dessert, everything paired with a delightful wine. I see myself creating visually appealing place settings and presentation of dishes. I see candles and lively conversation among a few selected guests. I see cooking a hearty meal for my man at the end of the day, already on the table when he gets home, the rest of the house spotless, allowing him to forget all his work stress and just enjoy the respite that is home. Pretty much I see myself as a Stepford Wife.
In reality I have to push myself to do these things. I love working on intellectually stimulating projects that tend to take up quite a bit of my time. Unfortunately that leaves me with little desire to then scrub the floor with an orange scented cleanser and cook up anything appetizing. B jokes that I could subsist entirely on chik patties (a vegetarian chicken patty substitute) and salad. She's totally right. I have to be really inspired to get home from work (which is not intellectually stimulating, simply time-consuming) and whip up anything good.
Maybe it's time for me to make my "summer resolution." I will stop abhorring the grocery store and will start cooking at least twice a week (baking is optional but should be attempted once a month). I know my parents would be thrilled if I started making all the delicious food I talk about and it would be great to really look forward to dinner (not to mention the leftovers I'd be able to take for lunch). D would probably like it, too, if I took some initiative and cooked once in awhile.
So let's create a 3 step plan:
1. Create a menu for the meals I want to cook that week (I only need 2).
2. Offer to do the grocery shopping for the week (mom would be thrilled if I do this...which I will).
3. Begin prep as soon as I get home from work so it can all just be thrown together.
Now, that seems easy enough. Here's my vow to stick to it!
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