Cheeseballs were my first food love. A gourmet from the beginning, there are several pictures of a very fat baby me with cheeto-like substance smeared across a big grin. My mother was such an enabler, she left me a can of cheeseballs in a cabinet I could get to easily in the kitchen. In her defense, she also made my baby food from scratch and my typical diet consisted mostly of green things and liver (yuck).
Fastforward to today. I still love eating. Cheese balls still hold some appeal, although I never buy them. And here’s my Friday confession: I’m sure I love eating; what I’m not sure about is whether I love cooking. This may bother a few people since I received more than one really great cookbook this Christmas and another for my birthday (thank you). I’m discovering that, compared to those who really love cooking and consider it a challenge, what I mostly love is consuming. Consuming is wonderful and gratifying and delicious. Cooking on the other hand is time consuming and involves me lifting a finger after work when I’m tired. Cooking also requires chopping things (which I hate) and planning ahead (which I’m not great at).
When Austin and I first married, I cooked a good bit. He went through an MBA program a year after our marriage and it was mostly up to me to put the literal bacon on the table. This was a really fun time and I discovered lots of fun recipes from various cooking shows, on-line sources and cookbooks. But, now that we’ve been married nearly six years, the thrill is gone.
Maybe the cookbook library I’ve acquired will serve as inspiration on a delectable platter. Perhaps, as I peel back each page, I’ll discover a world of food I thought possible only in restaurants. Then, I’ll whip up a cooking fury with these new recipes inviting friends and the homeless to enjoy a meal together. I’ll save the world from my kitchen with my chopping knife and perishable goods. Yeah, we’ll see…