My partner and darling spouse is not very well-versed in the culinary department. In fact, she is nowhere near the culinary department. If she by chance should want to boil an egg, she has to refer to the recipe book. I kid you not. It’s page 42.
So most of the time, we eat out. Out of tins, out of “Meal-in-a-minute” containers, out of “Shove-in-the-oven-for-20-minutes” freezer packages.
And once in a while, we really eat out at a restaurant or coffee shop. Okay, not really once in a while. More like once a week. No, we are not slim. Think Little Lotta.
If I feel like something besides a boiled egg or instant packaged meal, I have to make it myself. And it is my own damn fault. My ex never learnt to cook at home, as her mother was a control freak and nobody could cook better than she could. So, to survive, I had to learn to cook when I moved in with her (not the mother!). When we broke up after three years of living together, she had conveniently still not learnt to cook.
B grew up in foster care – a hostel setup where meals were prepared in a central kitchen, so when she moved in with me, I continued to do the cooking. Again, survival. She is a master strategist when it comes to reasons why she could not or cannot have prepared a meal and I fall for it. Every time. Even after 25 years. What a fool I am.
If my soul should reincarnate, I want a chef as partner. But then, with my luck, she will probably be so fed up with concocting haute cuisine or nouvelle cuisine or whatever cuisine meals in her world renowned restaurant that she does not want to cook for me when she gets home.
Such is life.