I love to cook– and my waistline makes no secret of it. But I don’t care so much about my waistline that food still doesn’t (and always) come first. I try to plan a few meals a week for cooking, and for working on my stack of recipe clippings.
But… shhhh… I get tired of cooking, sometimes. And while the BH is a good cook, and will cook dinner whenever I ask him to, sometimes I want a restaurant meal instead of cooking. Often, I want that meal alone.
I want to savor food made for me, and just for me, by myself. I want to dissect the meal, if I feel like it, by myself, without any more conversation than with whatever I’ve brought to read. Or I want to relish old favorites, like my Last Meal, as pictured above. (Steak tips, medium rare, steamed broccoli, and perfect, real mashed potatoes with lots of butter. And a glass of Menage a Trois Folie au Deux Merlot. The only thing missing is a big vanilla custard.) I want to be taken care of, alone, and to relish that, by myself. Because while I am primarily a cook, who loves to express her love for food and for the eaters of her food, I cook less for myself, and more for others. To truly feel the love for myself, I need to let someone else cook for me, in a situation where I can be quiet and relish it, free of the distraction to hop up from the table, making sure everyone else has enough. Eating at friends’ and family’s tables is wonderful, but not the same thing– my appreciation is tempered by the need to be careful of their feelings if I don’t think the meal is up to snuff. On my own, I can just focus on the food, and let go of the need to feed, the need to please. Which leaves me, in the end, more ready to feed, to please, to love, afterwards. Happy LT, all.
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