he lied. BIG TIME.
when he asked me to move in with him 3 years ago, i told him i won’t. on account that i can’t cook and i thought it would be unfair to move in with somebody when i can’t even bring anything to the table, literally and figuratively.
he said he couldn’t cook either. said that it would be fun to learn together. you know, make it an adventure. he made it sound so much fun. of course i fell for it.
boy, was i in for a big surprise: THE DUDE CAN COOK!
and i’m not talking scrambled-eggs-on-toast-with-maybe-a-bit-of-tomato-on-the-side-to-make-it-look-gourmet kind of cook.
i’m talking about this:
for the last couple of weeks jeff has been cooking dinner for us. one year of eating my monggos and dinuldog and he’s probably had enough. can’t blame him. there’s only so much a person can take eating pumpkin soup, even if you’re filo as.
he says it’s kind of like a date. him and me in the kitchen. hell, he says it’s even better than going out to eat at restaurants. plus, it’s waaaay so much cheaper too, he says. he did the math and according to his computation, i eat like a pig wherever anyways so might as well take the most cost-effective route. win-win.
i don’t mind. to be honest, i’d rather really just stay at home most of the time. because it fucking takes so much effort for me to look human for public consumption that i’d really rather just netflix and chill. (and by “chill,” i mean zzzzz…)
and besides, as his sous chef, i’m learning a lot from him.
such a fancy name for somebody who washes the dishes and operates his industrial fan blower when the fire alarm goes off. but i’m starting to earn his trust, i noticed. because he now delegates to me the most crucial task:
breading the meat.
mind you, it can make or break the whole entire dish. i’m dead serious. if you can’t even do it properly, then you have no right touching the holy flour sprinkled with jeff’s secret blend of herbs and spices. i’m not laughing. (what, you think this is some kind of a joke?)
and when he feels like it, he promotes me to food taster too. my most favorite job of all. except that he has to guard the rest of the food like a maximum security prison officer for fear that i’d eat it all. which i’m not saying i won’t. there’s always something exciting about prisonbreak. before you found out wentworth miller was actually gay.
anyhow, there’s this quote saying:
“a wife has to be a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom.”
obviously, a cook in the kitchen is already out of the equation which leaves me as… well, let’s just say, a whore in the living room. because i daresay i turn the heat up there pretty quick.
not to brag but i can work the heater like a motha’.
while jeff works like a motha’ to pay for the gas bills.
p.s. he makes some mean lamb biryani! holler and i’ll hook you up.