When I cook, it usually involves poking holes in plastic and programming the microwave oven. Even that ritual is rare, as I usually opt for fast food or, more likely, nothing much at all.
This is a major difference between me and B. After shopping for organic ingredients at Whole Foods, we began cooking — well, he cooked, mostly, and I watched and drank wine.
Corn bread. Corn and clam chowder. Green beans. Pork tenderloin with pecans in a merlot mushroom cream sauce. Chocolate souffle something-or-others.
Yikes.
The experience of cooking it was much more important than eating it — by the time it was finished about, oh, 10pm, neither of us was very hungry.
And the rare mornings when I get up and make breakfast? A couple of eggs and perhaps some sausage.
At B’s? Scrambled eggs, bacon, mango, apple, green beans, corn bread, mushrooms. And I’m not talking about just eggs — there was stuff in them. Like, fresh herbs and milk. Stuff I’d never think to put in my eggs.
He played piano for me, beautifully. He sung La Boheme for me, emotionally. He cooked for me, expansively. I am wide eyed and in awe.
