I don’t like cooking. Most everyone I know is aware of this fact. I have learned only enough to survive, and just barely at that.
On Sunday Susan and I had gotten fresh pasta and Italian veggie-sausage to make a meal. I was determined to have it ready by the time she got home; I always feel guilty when she works all day and then makes dinner, even if it is a faction of the effort it takes me, and it appears to be zazen for her.
Anyhow!
I cooked the sausage up and that was going okay. Then I had the idea to pour marinara sauce over it and let it cook in the pan. Well, that didn’t work out great, since the sauce just started burning on the bottom of the pan. So, I quickly moved the contents of the pan to a small pot, which was mostly filled with a tomato paste-ball of veggie sausage, which also immediately began bubbling and burning, on the lowest setting of heat.
Turning that off and putting it aside for the moment, I noticed the water boiling in the other pot, so I went to get the noodles. I reached in and pulled out this brittle, crackling package of hardened noodle-shaped substance. I figured it was probably suppose to be that way, though I didn’t remember it ever doing that before. So, I plopped that in the water.
The counter was getting crowded, so I started to put things away when I noticed something, ahem, growing on the bottom of the lid to the marinara sauce. I didn’t care, I could go get new veggie-sausage and sauce, they heat in minutes, so dinner would only be that much later.
A few minutes pass and I check to see if the noddles are done. I pull one out and taste it. It tastes horrible. Really, really bad. I look outside and see Susan putting her bike away…
So I go and grab a coat and meet her outside. She can have whatever she wants, I will take her out to dinner tonight.
The moral of this story is: cooking is hard, and I don’t like it. 