I hate to cook. It always gets me into trouble but I accidently made an ain't-no-diet-today delicious pot of vegan spaghetti sauce. I don't know how it happened since I made it from scratch with no recipe. Of course, I am one-quarter Italian. Maybe that explains it.
I rarely cook but yesterday was an exception since I was out of boxes that say, "just add water" so I was forced to actually make a meal. If I could settle for a life time of oatmeal and Pop Tarts, I wouldn't have to cook. Cooking involves dangerously long and sharp knives, garlic aromas that linger longer on the finger tips than skunk stink on a cat, onion tears and fresh luminous vegetables -- the kind of fresh vegetables I impulse-buy at the Santa Monica Farmer's Market on Arizona and Second Street. In the midst of all those lovely vegetables, I'm dazzled by their vegan beauty and I forget that I always manage to slice off a tip of fingernail along with the mushrooms or slice myself while vivisecting the bell peppers. All I can remember is how delicious the vegetables are and I kind of disregard my distaste for the process it takes to make a pot or pan of anything. My relationship with cooking is something of a metaphor to the wisdom of a one-night stand. But I digress.
Today the sauce was in its better-the-second-day stage and simmers on the stove. At some point, it turned into a kind of magic elixir that requires repeated "does it need anything?" taste tests. I seem to have no ability to stop myself from visiting the pot for just one more 4 ounce ladle of sauce (no pasta) -- just in case it suddenly got better or worse or needs some additional herb. Since I live alone, there's no one to shame me into some form of self-discipline or to block my way to the kitchen. Therefore, the only way to stop me is to put locks on the kitchen doors that slam shut between 8pm and 9am. Of course, locked doors would block the only indoor path to the bathroom. An unavoidable midnight piddle would require a furtive, nightgown-clad trip out the front door, along the length of the bungalow to the brightly lit back door. Odds are, I'd lock myself out. I don't even want to think about the humiliation of being reported by the resident homeless guy in the alley for disturbing the peace, then being booked and printed for attempted breaking and entry while still in my nightgown. Cooking always gets me into trouble.
I rarely cook but yesterday was an exception since I was out of boxes that say, "just add water" so I was forced to actually make a meal. If I could settle for a life time of oatmeal and Pop Tarts, I wouldn't have to cook. Cooking involves dangerously long and sharp knives, garlic aromas that linger longer on the finger tips than skunk stink on a cat, onion tears and fresh luminous vegetables -- the kind of fresh vegetables I impulse-buy at the Santa Monica Farmer's Market on Arizona and Second Street. In the midst of all those lovely vegetables, I'm dazzled by their vegan beauty and I forget that I always manage to slice off a tip of fingernail along with the mushrooms or slice myself while vivisecting the bell peppers. All I can remember is how delicious the vegetables are and I kind of disregard my distaste for the process it takes to make a pot or pan of anything. My relationship with cooking is something of a metaphor to the wisdom of a one-night stand. But I digress.
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| Ohhhhhhhh the temptation! |
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| Santa Monica Farmer's Market's Tempting Items |
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