In Which We (I) Cook Dinner

Tonight was a rare kind of night in our house in that a) everyone was home, and b) we decided collectively to actually stay in, venture into the jungle of our refrigerator and make dinner (read: we decided to stay in, and they decided I should make dinner.)

Let me clarify, too, that I was not chosen as tonight’s chef because I’m an amazing, innovative, seasoned bastion of the kitchen.

I make one meal.

People (my sister and her boyfriend included), tend to like this meal for some reason and mistakenly think I can cook.

The important take-away from all this is twofold, really: 1) I need to learn to make more than one dinner, because soon my friends and family will want me to continue to make dinners and we can only do this for so long before they realize I keep making the same thing. 2) Making dinner in our house is quite the undertaking.

For starters, I seem to forget every time I make this particular dish that it takes veritable lightyears to prepare. Jess and I took one helluva yoga class this evening, so we were both famished and, long story short, ate the equivalent of a meal in snacks whilst preparing dinner. After a good deal of chopping and slicing, sauteing and frying, the dog was acting the way everyone was feeling, and we were all reminded of why we dine out entirely too often. Never mind that a century ago we would have had to slaughter a chicken, pack our own sausage, grind and process the corn, harvest the vegetables from the garden and then start cooking. This was taking entirely too long.

When we’d finally completed the meal (I’d like to point out that while I had plenty of time to take great pictures of the cooking process, my finished product shot is an epic failure caused by complete disinterest in anything but eating some damn food), the question arose as to what beverage would best serve our culinary masterpiece. Since my lovely sister made a point of spitting out the cucumber water I offered her in a fine spray (“I always wanted to do that”), we were down to milk, orange juice and… oh hello,  golden bottle of something entitled Blenheim Ginger Ale. I think we can all agree that in the name of adventure, we had to give this sucker a try.

Things We Learned About/From Blenheim Ginger Ale:

1) It tastes like burning

2) But seriously, if you hold your nose it’s not so bad.

3) You can finish a bottle if three people are willing to do the work

4) Despite tasting like it belongs under your sink with the Drano and bleach, Blenheim is, as the bottle so lovingly states, “FROM PURE WATER.” (I would like to point out that the River Styx is also made “FROM PURE WATER.”)

4) The next time you find a random, aging bottle of ginger beer in the employee fridge at work, BACK AWAY SLOWLY. It hasn’t been sitting there for the past three months for its health.

All in all, not a shabby dinner. Lesson learned? Good things come to those who wait. Also: Burnt things come to those who forget to turn the stovetop off.


2 thoughts on “In Which We (I) Cook Dinner

  1. 1. I am a HUGE fan (not just because of my diet) of your hyperbole.
    2. You have ruined me on ginger ale.
    3. As any space traveler knows, a lightyear is a distance. 🙂

  2. Pingback: My Body is a Temple (Or, “How I Justify Blowing my Rent Money at Whole Foods”) | Curiouser & Curiouser

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