Cooking Is My Dump Stat

Let’s get this out of the way: I am no cook.



I knew I would eventually have to brave the desolate wasteland that is my culinary expertise, making something more complicated than bread and more bread.

Breakfast of champions.

I do like the IDEA of cooking. Every so often I get a rush of gastronomic inspiration, where I become completely convinced of my own genius.
I rush out in desperate glee, buying turmeric and anchovies and rice noodles under the false assumption that somehow, SOMEHOW, my ability to transform raw ingredients into dinner will have magically improved since last time.
Spoiler alert: it never has.

So instead I end up with what I can only assume regurgitated rarebit looks like, and I vow to never again venture into the kitchen for anything other than milk and spying on the neighbours.



But this week was DIFFERENT. Now I had a goal. A purpose. I would make dinner, and I would make dinner for greater good. There would be epics sung in the honour of this dinner. Women would swoon. Yes, there would be a lot of swooning.

The Dream

But first I would need supplies.
I got some good recipes from my veggie friend as well as my newly acquired cookbooks.
Of course, reading these were a challenge in and of itself, since the preferred language of cooks seem to be mystical runes written down as dictated by a three year old with a limited, but inventive, vocabulary.



I chose two formulas for the week (a simple vegetable soup and a slightly harder Moroccan fish dish) and ventured fourth into civilized society to steal their edibles.

I quickly acquired a deep, passionate love for the local organic food store. It had everything that I needed that could not be found in other stores.



After buying spices and ninety different kinds of beans, I was ready to tackle the fiery pits of our kitchenette.



Yeah, okay, I still couldn’t cook.
But the purpose behind my actions were still evident. There were fewer “oh well I’m sure teaspoon and spoonful is the same thing there’s no way this is going to come back and bite me in the ass later”. Not as many “I’m sure it’s supposed to look like that”. And surely a lot less of “oh well I’m only here for the dead animal anyway”.



But in the end I managed to feed myself without dying, so I count this week a success.


Victory!

Tune in on Saturday when I go up against my greatest nemesis: exercise.