No Niche. Just Me.
I have a question:
When you walk into a public bathroom and the stall door is closed, do you rattle it, then pound on it and then push it? Or do you move on to another stall that’s clearly unoccupied (ie: the door is open, there are no feet)?
That’s what I thought.
I have a confession to make. The past few months, I have only stepped in my kitchen to wash dishes, make coffee, feed the dog and use my laptop.
The whole cooking thing that’s supposed to go on in there? Not happening. Not by me anyway. Bill will cook—mostly for himself, because I’m more apt to come home from work and eat a bowl of cereal. Or a Fudgesicle.
But here’s the thing—I am a good cook. In fact, I think I’m better than good. When I want to be.
I’m addicted to cookbooks, food magazines, food blogs. I love flipping through the pages and savoring recipes I want to try. I watch the Food Network all weekend long. I record shows on the TV in the kitchen so I will watch there and be inspired. It’s porn. Total food porn.
I love food. I love eating food. Buying food, searching for interesting ingredients. Smelling food. There’s something amazing about a perfectly prepared meal—and it doesn’t matter if it’s in a restaurant or at a friend’s house. I love it. And I’ve always loved it. When I was a kid (about 11 to 15), I was home alone after school because both of my parents worked, so I’d get dinner started for my mom (who isn’t a great cook, so it was probably self-preservation). I’d make everything from Sweet & Sour chicken to pot roast. In the summer if I wasn’t reading or at our local pool, I’d raid my mom’s pantry, see what ingredients we had and match it to a recipe in my mom’s collection. I dedicated one summer to baking. My parents came home every night to lemon meringue pie, red velvet cake, cupcakes, Rice Krispy Treats, pineapple upside down cake (it was a fat summer for all of us).
I love cooking for others. When we have friends or family coming over for the weekend or for a nice dinner, I’ll sit down with my cookbooks, magazines and blogs, plan the menu, go shopping and spend a day in the kitchen. It makes me happy. I like learning new techniques and practicing them when I cook. A couple of weeks ago, we had my granddaughter and daughter in law over and I made homemade pizzas on the grill with a blue cheese wedge salad. It was pretty damn good, if I say so myself.
I used to dream about going to cooking school. In fact, our local college is opening a school right near me and I’m considering taking some classes.
But—and this is a big but—I have no patience for it during the week. The last thing I feel like doing when I get home is cook dinner. I have all the basics, so putting something together shouldn’t be a big deal, but I can’t even stand the idea of opening a can of peas and heating them up to serve with one of those cooked chickens from the grocery store. Yes, I am THAT lazy.
I think part of my problem is that I don’t know how to tone it down. I don’t know how to make something for just one or two people (and that’s important because oddly, I don’t eat leftovers). I can’t cook for less than 10 people (or so it seems).
I need something easy. I need something fast.
This is a dumb question, but what is your go-to meal when you get home?
I’ve gotta figure something out. I need to get my ass back in the kitchen and feed someone other than the dog.
It was a beautiful Easter morning. I was looking forward to a quiet morning, relaxing around the house, not doing much of anything. Bill had other ideas. Apparently, it was time to get me off my ass and working out again. (Meaning: Hey, fatty, move it!)
As I laced up my tennis shoes, which haven’t seen much more activity than a walk around the mall, I thought about how much this run was going to hurt.
At first it wasn’t so bad. Bill and the dog set the pace. We ran down the paths that wind through our neighborhood. I was tight but my stride was good—I felt all graceful and gazelle-like. But about a half mile into it, my legs started to feel heavy. I slowed down but I kept moving. And I kept getting slower and slower…and slower. Until I walked.
Bill and Gracie slowed down to wait for me, walked with me until I caught my breath and then took off again. We ran out onto a dirt trail along a wash. In my head I was Carl Lewis. In reality, I was Quasimodo—hunched over, arms akimbo, feet barely lifting off the ground, sucking in air.
It was brutal.
We probably only went a couple of miles—and I walked most of it—but it was so hard. I used to be in great shape but through a collaboration of things, I got out of the habit of going to the gym this past year. Starting again is one of the hardest things to do.
I actually lost weight when I stopped working out but I’m probably the least healthy I’ve ever been. I lost muscle and strength and any fitness I had. And I’m sure it’s the reason I’ve gotten so sick lately.
As exhausted as I am and as sore as I feel, it was a wake up call that I need to start moving my ass again. I may not be able to move tomorrow, but when I can, I’ll start hitting the road (and the weights) again.
Wish me luck.
Bill suggested that I should have titled this post “So You’re Saying I’m Fat?!”
I can barely walk today. I am so unbelievably sore and am cursing the fact that I wore high-heeled boots this morning. Even my hair hurts.
Then Bill had the balls to ask me if I’m meeting him at the gym tonight.
Fucker.
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