My boyfriend has been out of town for the past few nights (he’s at a conference in Bucharest. I’m a bit sad I couldn’t join him; it was just unfortunate that the conference dates fell smack in the middle of my thesis defense), which means my meals have been terrible.
It’s not just that my boyfriend is usually the one to cook dinner (that’s right, girls, I snagged a good one). Rather, I hate cooking for one person. Mostly it’s because I don’t want to wash a ton of dishes all by myself. Because even though it feels like a ton (a pot, a plate, a cup and silverware? too much), it’s not enough to justify using a dishwasher.
So whenever Joery goes out of town, my eating habits devolve.
For instance: tonight’s dinner consisted of about 5 kiwis (I lost count) and the loempias (like a deep-fried spring roll) I found in my freezer. Yesterday it was delicious muffins given to me by a friend, a bowl of rice krispies, and more kiwis (I think I bought too many and now I feel pressured to eat them before they go bad).
Fun fact: if you eat a bunch of kiwis, your tongue gets all prickly. I can’t really describe it, but I finished eating them a couple of hours ago and my tongue still feels weird. What’s that about?
It’s not that I don’t like to cook; I actually love it. But it’s not just the technical cooking that I enjoy, it’s the sharing of the meal afterwards. Without that, cooking is just the necessary thing you need to do at the end of a long day.
And if I’m going to eat by myself in front of reruns of the Big Bang Theory, I might as well enjoy a bowl of cereal that snaps, crackles and pops.