Food Confessions

I never write about it for some reason, but I cook. A lot. And by a lot, I mean that I can slice onions with my eyes closed, I know how to bone a chicken, I can make biscuits from scratch with out consulting a cook book, and I can tell when caramel sauce is done by the sound it makes while it bubbles in the pan. I know what to do with kitchen twine. I own a leave-in meat thermometer. I lust after kitchen equipment. Paradise is an afternoon alone with the stove and a glass of wine. Which makes me a little bit obsessive, I gather.

Before I was out I worried that my ability to cook was a dead give away. I roasted chickens in secret, passed off cookies as other peoples and generally was an obsessive retard about my own abilities. But I've always been able to cook- my mom made us learn (Thanks for making me gay!). (Kidding. It was dad pushing me to play little league.) I don't think "made" us learn is the right phrasing. I think "taught us how to not burn the kitchen down with our own enthusiasm" is a more apt description. My brother and I have always loved the cooking. My sister: not so much. But she knows how to fix cars. I know how to fix omelets. We are both happy with our trade-offs, I think.

The obsessive part comes when people find out how much I really do spend thinking about it, doing it, reading about it, researching it, and cleaning up after it. Good thing the boyfriend is understanding (and hungry).