In the novel I’m reading, a boy jokes about marrying an old chef and says, “Beauty fades, but cooking is eternal.” Well, I’m screwed.
The universe did not bless me with any sort of innate cooking ability and I believe that my willingness to eat anything (except soda. Fizzy nastiness) stems from a primitive and indiscriminating palate. Plus, I’m afraid of stoves. They’re hot, dangerous, and alien. I don’t trust them. I also avoid using things with pointy edges. My use of kitchen implements and technology is pretty much limited to microwaves, the fridge, spatulas, and the cheese grater (I’m actually quite handy with that one, but I’m sure the day I grate my own hand will be the day I forever break ties with the cheese grater). Essentially, what this all means is that if a dude ever tells me to go make him a sandwich, my two-pronged response will involve 1) feminist disgust – you’ve got two hands, go make yourself your own damn sammich (I might make allowances for the chaps who don’t actually have two hands) and 2) hey as long as you’re referring to a PB&J, I’m always pleasantly surprised to hear about some food item that my food-making skills actually encompass.
Here’s a visual representation of how much I clearly enjoy kitchen-related pursuits:
Then there’s this very odd inner conflict where part of me loves discovering new recipes on Pinterest and the other part is quite aware that there’s very little chance my attempts would look anything like the photo.
One time I was kind of lucky and made this:
Almost without fail, my average meals in a single day include: parfait for breakfast (my new personal motto is “parfait erryday.” It kinda rhymes, see?!), PB&J for lunch (many Kiwis do not know the meaning of ‘PB&J.’ I am both flabbergasted and horrified. Kiwis also eat their pancakes with ice cream, so I really don’t think they have any reason to judge me for walking around town with my PB&J), and cheese quesadilla with avocado for dinner. I shop at New World for groceries. Normally, I would purchase Greek yogurt for my parfaits, but Kiwi yogurt is not exactly a paragon of Greek yogurt in all its deliciousness. New World does, however, have the best bananas in town. Shop nowhere else for bananas… ‘twould be a fool’s errand. New World also has Oreos! New Zealand stores don’t seem to stock many ‘Murican brands (although you can find Pop Tarts in the foreign foods section. Yeah.), but boy do they have Oreos. Unfortunately, NZ are quite thin. I’m not sure if it’s cookie thin, less-whatever-that-white-filling-is thin, or both… but nevertheless, I got Oreos and I got peanut butter so I’m gonna party. (This very awesome video of a slow loris eating a rice ball effectively captures the contentedness I experience when I eat Oreos and peanut butter).
When my body starts to wither for lack of meat or non-avocado veggies, I go out for dinner, and when my stock of fresh fruit begins to run low, I go to the weekly Farmer’s Market. Every Saturday morning sees the Market set up near the Dunedin train station. I love the crisp 15-minute walk over, wandering the stalls, and perusing the assortment of fresh and surprisingly cheap fruit. I also love the diverse buskers, but I always manage to embarrass myself and my friends when I become the only person awkwardly and publicly dancing to the rhythmic music.
Once a year there is also a larger Farmer’s Market in the Octagon.
Every Saturday, I purchase a Bacon Butty for breakfast. Bacon Butties are rather famous here and are like little, delicious, heart attacks on a plate. Crispy bacon, ketchup, mustard, magic, and some other ingredients between two slices of white bread… my stomach is making the rumblies just thinking about it.
And now I’ve been sent a blessing: a flatmate who loves to cook. Goodbye nightly quesadilla, hello weekly “family” dinners!