Wednesday, November 23

I am experiencing a renaissance of cooking. No, that makes it seem like I have history of cooking, which is not really true. Oh, sure, I've flirted with the occasional recipe--once in my youth I whipped up a whole pan of meringue. No pie, just the topping, and it was delish. There was the ill-advised eggplant stew affair during my vegetarian years. The recipe didn't say to peel the damn thing; is that my fault? Purple stew, not so delish.

Nowadays, I cook about 3 days a week. My speciality is soup. It's difficult to mess up soup, and you can make a "cream of" anything. Soup sorta cooks itself. I am making soup as I type this, in fact.

The main problem with all of this cooking is that Scott won't eat it. He also won't read a book I've recommended or agree with anything I say, so it may be a relationship-systemic problem. I prefer to think of it as a difference in tastes, however. I am a big fan of tomatoes in all thier forms, from a light red sauce to eating one like an apple. I am somewhat adventurous; I like sashimi, for example. I love fresh veggies and absolutely anything with chili powder. Scott likes, well, frozen corndogs. And cereal. Straight out of the bag, because he won't drink milk. Needless to say, Scott is very thin, while I am. . . not.

So, Scott and I either have a fundamentally antagonistic relationship, a practially unsurmountable difference in preferences, or he has cottoned to the fact that soup is a fine vehicle for slow-acting poison. Ooops, excuse me, it's time to go stir.

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