September 23, 2005
The Little Cook Who Could
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Living alone, my daily sustenance usually involves a marriage (can’t believe I used that word) of quick ingredients: cheese and crackers; hummus and carrots; or yogurt and fruit. I eat while standing in the kitchen, and preparation and eating times combined total about 15 minutes. Why confuse things?

Yes, I’ll drink out of the milk carton and, yes, I usually pepper the entire container of cottage cheese. It’s my party, after all.

Several of my married girlfriends cook dinner every night for their husbands and/or families. Even the ones who work full-time say this is practically in all prenuptial agreements: women typically do the cooking.

When they tell me this I violently shake my head back and forth, like a Labrador just exiting a pool, uttering this: Say what?

In my dating history I’ve been lucky enough to find several men who enjoyed cooking, and cooking together was always part of the program.

One boyfriend was vegetarian, so around him so was I. Another boyfriend was a gourmet (though he usually burned the brisket) and with him my sessions at the gym needed lengthening.

Does marriage take the fun out of togetherness? I want the Big Chill family dinner: food-filled conversations and wine-glazed desserts, followed by dancing around the kitchen bumping hips to powerful music while romantically being dipped into the dishwasher.

Still, marriage is far less predictable than the word “casserole” is, and as long as quiche doesn’t count, I’ve yet to create one of those.

But in a latterly example of unprecedented leaven and spice, I cooked dinner for a date.

I wrote down a few recipes, but when arriving at the grocery to retrieve the items, I realized I’d left my notes at home, right next to the book “Driven To Distraction.” Having a sieve-like brain comes in handy in the kitchen, saving counter space, and all.

My mom and step-mom are familiar with my calls from O’Malia’s asking how to make this, or what goes well with that. It concerns me that each call ends with them saying, with sorrowfully empathetic undertones, “Good luck…”

Derailing all the non-believers, my dinner was a success, and what I lacked in my over-cooked chicken, I quickly made up for with homemade peach pie and a bottle of 1997 Zinfandel (the red kind; the only kind).

My date, on cue, beamed, “Wow, I’m impressed,” and I sat soaking up the compliment with a piece of baguette. Teeming with sarcasm, I said, “Shucks, I do this all the time…”