They consider me a cook

I was turning a box of cake mix into cookies, just because I could, and Mister Man told me, "just to let you know, they think of you a cook."  He meant his colleagues in his office.  I replied, "did you let them know that I've baked more in the last six months than I had in two years?"  He was all, "not quite, but at Christmas I let them know you were making up for lost time."




I love to cook.  Some people know me from my baking phases.  They know me from all the experimenting and the swordfish and the spaghetti pie.  Mexican Manicotti.   They know me from baking cakes for my preschool class' birthdays.  They know me for making Rice Krispies every single week.  For absolutely no reason whatsoever.


And then some people know me from my crazy schedules.  They know me baking at 2 am for The Redhead's preschool class the next day.  I think for a few years, I did all my best baking between the hours of 1 am-3 am.  I couldn't help myself.  I just had to.  How else was it going to get done?



Then there's our sitter who probably didn't think we ever cooked, just based upon the contents of our cabinets.  All of those boxes of processed foods that I would never eat.  The expired packages.  Wasted olive oil.  The stuff lost in the freezer.  Just thinking about the amount of food we wasted makes me cringe.  The ample supply of dinosaur nuggets, Macaroni and cheese, hot dogs, canned soup, and pasta.  I'm not proud of that time period. The Redhead liked it though because those were her foods.  I was never home to be subjected to eating them, and that was Mister Man's idea of cooking.


Then there were all the years sitting at family dinners where Mister Man's grandmother would ask if I was finally cooking.  Everyone would act like this was new, as Mister Man and I just smirked at one another.  We'd hear over and over, "oh, you are cooking?"  This went on for so many years, so many dinners.  In fact, I have been cooking since six months into our relationship.  I cooked for our first Valentine's Day, 2000, chicken fettucini, and somehow it turned out okay.  That was the first time I cooked chicken and fortunately, no one died.  After that, I went on a spree of cooking all sorts of dishes, mostly bizarre ones.  If it wasn't challenging, it wasn't made in our apartment.  Cooking replaced us eating out all the time, but honestly, it cost probably close to the same.


...Until I learned the art of basing our meals on the grocery sales, but that's a whole other story.


I wasn't taught how to bake or cook.  My parents didn't let me play on the stove or in the oven.  Even though sometimes I did it on my own anyway.  I learned how to make waffles on my own using the waffle iron and would surprise everyone with breakfast.  Mostly, my mother would encourage me to just cook using the microwave, but I think deep down, I always knew life would be better out of that oven.  Until flash forward to years later, I was making cheesecake and macaroni and cheese with my friends and blew up butter in the microwave and scorched the macaroni.  Who knew you could ruin such things, but I managed to.  And then that first Valentine's Day with Mister Man came along, and well, I was finally ready to settle the score.


I'm not a chef by any means.  I just enjoy concocting things, getting a little messy, and most of all, I just want to smell it all.  I want that aroma in my kitchen, an aroma that not even Scentsy can reproduce.  I want to try new things, perfect old ones, and enjoy the food that I shove into my mouth.



And now, Mister Man's coworkers think I'm a cook.  They wouldn't be the first coworkers to think so.  But, I hope to not ruin that reputation.  Mostly, for me.