This morning I am thinking about my grandmother who was an indifferent cook, and my mother who was like her in that way, and now me. So, I come by my aversion honestly. But, the American Egoist™ in me wants to constantly improve, do better, is convinced that one day I'll get this cooking thing right. Or die trying where you'll find me standing at the stove in my apron. (Heh.) Yes, the semester is coming to the end and I can imagine a life that's comprised of more than hoovering up black strokes on white paper trying to coerce my 63 year old working memory to hold on to this pleez for a few more weeks. And so thoughts turn to food and gardening and quilting.
Last Sunday I thought it was Saturday, which is why I posted Saturday Poetry without irony, and without realizing the mistake until I was jumping up and down in my own kitchen arguing with Cuthbert and Kim that "No, it's not Sunday. It's Saturday and I have another day!!!" Alas, they were right and I was wrong, and it was good I found out when I did instead of not showering or showing up for work as is my habit on the weekend.
I like food. I really do. But I have not yet made an enduring bond between my like and appreciation and the production of such. I've written before and I'll write again about looking at cookbooks, being inspired, knowing much of what there is to know about the connections between good nutrition and good health. I'm old enough (and beat up enough) to know that my survival depends on what and how much I consume from here on out. I am in awe of cooks; I love to watch people being fed well and with love. I love the sound of infants eating because they eat with their body and soul and they make such wonderful noises as they feed. I can organize a great dinner party. I so much want to be one of those people, those let-me-whip-a-little-somthin-somthin-up-for-you-while-we're-waiting people when I grow up and yet. And yet. My aversion to cooking is so bad that I'd eat a spoonful of raw ground beef (not even shaped into beef tartare nor adorned with an egg) before I'd boil water for pasta.
Perhaps I should be counter-intuitive about this and take a class, let my competitive nature kick in and actually cook because I want to be the best in show? Maybe that would get me to cook. Don't know; not sure. Every August when Cuthbert goes home I have to fend for myself, and if ever I cook on a regular basis, it's then. I'll wait to see if anything changes. If it doesn't expect a post: You're Not Going to Eat That, Are You?
School's almost over. The garden beckons. Ciao bella.
Last Sunday I thought it was Saturday, which is why I posted Saturday Poetry without irony, and without realizing the mistake until I was jumping up and down in my own kitchen arguing with Cuthbert and Kim that "No, it's not Sunday. It's Saturday and I have another day!!!" Alas, they were right and I was wrong, and it was good I found out when I did instead of not showering or showing up for work as is my habit on the weekend.
I like food. I really do. But I have not yet made an enduring bond between my like and appreciation and the production of such. I've written before and I'll write again about looking at cookbooks, being inspired, knowing much of what there is to know about the connections between good nutrition and good health. I'm old enough (and beat up enough) to know that my survival depends on what and how much I consume from here on out. I am in awe of cooks; I love to watch people being fed well and with love. I love the sound of infants eating because they eat with their body and soul and they make such wonderful noises as they feed. I can organize a great dinner party. I so much want to be one of those people, those let-me-whip-a-little-somthin-somthin-up-for-you-while-we're-waiting people when I grow up and yet. And yet. My aversion to cooking is so bad that I'd eat a spoonful of raw ground beef (not even shaped into beef tartare nor adorned with an egg) before I'd boil water for pasta.
Perhaps I should be counter-intuitive about this and take a class, let my competitive nature kick in and actually cook because I want to be the best in show? Maybe that would get me to cook. Don't know; not sure. Every August when Cuthbert goes home I have to fend for myself, and if ever I cook on a regular basis, it's then. I'll wait to see if anything changes. If it doesn't expect a post: You're Not Going to Eat That, Are You?
School's almost over. The garden beckons. Ciao bella.
