It worried me. It worried me more than the rest of the divorce fallout. I have to admit, I was "Who's behind the door" scared.
What about the food? Who will feed me?
Well Rob, let me show you what you've won! Long hot nights of cooking with yourself, for yourself, and by yourself. Each meal, planned and orchestrated by the worlds least likely to master a TV Dinner box. (Early advice Rob, remove foil before using microwave.) That's right, complex meals are a thing of the past. If you can't pronounce it , you can't eat it. It's an all expenses unpaid extravaganza! All you can eat, if you can prepare it in five minutes or less. Good luck Rob!
Finally, something is all about me, and I don't want it. How screwed up is that?
I know, I've even mentioned it before. That's how concerned I am. Everything else around the house is no big deal. I've done it all before, it'll be okay. Sure, I've done cooking before. In college I made a canned ham with cranberry sauce served in a Frisbee, eaten with plastic silverware. That's a pathetic story for later, so stay tuned.
Like I said, I'm the go-to guy on the special occasion meals. I do all the baking, and grilling, but man does not live on snickerdoodles alone. What's more, only certain things work on the grill. Trust me, rice? Not happening: There's no way to Kabob those little suckers; I've tried!
No I was concerned. Why you could say that at first I was afraid, I was petrified….but I'd rather you didn't. Leave the singing to the professionals and drunken Karaoke stars.
See it was the day to day. Making cooking a routine that worried me. I seriously considered calling my brother in-law, he works in a resort as a chef, even makes this mean carrot dish with caramelized sugar. I don't like cooked carrots that much, but this, this is good. I think its because I do like sugar. I thought I could invite him to live here if he cooked. It'd be a great idea, I even have room for the kids. The only problem is he'd expect to bring my sister too.
So cook for myself it is.
When I was in college it was either eat out, or eat ramen. I can't afford to eat out, and I don't think my system will take that much salt broth anymore. So it's do or die. Quite literally. Would Sally Struthers support my cause? I'll walk barefoot through streets of broken glass if somebody would make me a pastrami sandwich.
The other problem is portions. I can read a cook book, and despite what MyWife would tell you, I can follow directions. But have you looked through these things? "Serves 4," "serves 8," "Feeds a regiment." What the hell? I don't have the room in my fridge for those kind of leftovers! What's more, I may like a dish but eating it for a week straight assures I'll never like it again.
Sigh…maybe a diet is in order.
So Sunday I fried up a pork chop, and mixed it with this boxed Zatarans rice stuff. I even added some frozen veggies. Not bad. Yeah, there were leftovers, but some aren't bad. That's one meal I won't have to think about.
Each day I'd open the freezer and stare. My parents would be proud, but I don't care, it's my freezer, and yes, I do plan on cooling the whole damn house, thank you very much. Each day I'd pick out a meat, and then work outward from there.
It hasn't been that bad yet.
Sure we're not even a week into this, but I'm a creature of habit. If I can build a routine, it's actually easier. That's what I need to do: Build another routine. What's cool is, contrary to popular belief, "routine" doesn't mean "stifled creativity." It just means discipline. I suck at discipline, but I'm learning.
Why just last night I made this great grilled spam. Then I covered it in a Velveeta batter, dropped it in the deep fryer, pulled it out, and slathered it in a braunswiger paste. One super meal, serving just one: Me.
Ok, no I didn't make that. That's just gross. But I did make this nice grilled chicken. And even mixed up a honey Dijon glaze, served up on my rickety ol' card table.
My God I'm a housewife.
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