Sunday, August 30, 2009

I love my boyfriend, he smells like fish...

Last night my boyfriend and I tried to share the kitchen in an attempt to make a joint meal. Okay, what really happened is, my boyfriend, (Let's call him Bobby, or Unable to Relinquish Control For Even a Second, but Bobby is probably easier) attempted to make a meal, and I attempted to help. Poor decision on my part.

First, there are some things you should know about me. I am not kitchen material. I was not raised in a "let's all help cook and therefore learn by proxy" kind of house. I can make 7 things that are edible: chocolate chip cookies, chicken enchiladas, breakfast casserole, crab artichoke dip, chicken broccoli & cheese casserole, pasta, and cereal. While I make those 7 things well enough to serve to the gods, each item listed basically requires throwing all the ingredients in a dish and letting the oven take over. Difficulty Level: Participant. Not to mention, it's a short list, and not enough to keep anyone fed for any length of time. Everything else is a recipe for disaster.

Also, good to know about me, is that I'm pretty particular with what goes in my mouth, and that includes food. Texture, taste, expiration date, freshness, whether I've heard of it before, are all major factors I take into account prior to eating anything.

This leaves Bobby in a somewhat precarious position. See, he works at a fish market, which is both aces and lame. Aces because I LOVE and I mean LOVE salmon, and crab, and lobster. Lame because I'm not a fan of black cod, and halibut, and swordfish, and a lot of the other mysterious sea creatures he brings home. And also lame because there are only so many nights one can shovel fish, albeit delicious fresh fish, into one's gullet.

That brings us to last night. Bobby and I's first attempt at homemade lump crab cakes. Seemed simple enough. Mix, form into patty, fry. The problems started around the mixing portion of the program.

*side note* It is also important for you to know that while my handsome guy is a very good cook when it comes to improv and creating his own dishes, he is also very ego driven and impatient. This of course means that the EXPERTS that spend YEARS trying and perfecting recipes, don't really know what they're doing so it's always, FASTER, HOTTER, MORE! They ask for a tablespoon, Bobby feels it needs a cup. They say cook slowly, Bobby turns it up to the highest setting. This has left us with many a burnt protein, a Salt Lake soup, and a fiery-daggers-shooting-down-my-throat appetizer.

That said, crab cakes be damned, we were gonna have ourselves a meal. The next hour consited of "Babe, we need to add more hot sauce... you won't even taste it"s and "I'm gonna throw in some more butter, 4 tablespoons doesn't feel like enough"s. And a whole lot of "Babe, here let me." and "No, don't! Wait! Stop, you're not supposed to...I'll just do it" I admit I'm no Wolfgang Puck. Tom Colicchio and I will never share a kitchen. Bravo will not be calling to solicit me for Top Chef: Seattle. But, I CAN STIR CRAB AND MAYONAISSE IN A BOWL.

The cooking adventure ended how it always does. I threw my spoon in the sink, grabbed the latest issue of People and sat on the couch, pouting while he finished the meal. The crab cakes ended up being far to spicy and a little burnt, and it wouldn't have taken Sylvia Brown to predict that.

And this is why I stick to take-out.


  1. When Pat cooks it's his activity for that day. It requires a shopping trip, 4 hours of prep time, and 3 hours of putting that damn meal together. By the time it's ready I've already eaten half my arm.

    And this is why I stick to take out...

    ...and left arms.

  2. Hahahah. I love this. What I want to know is why do men HEAR something different than what you SAY? Like when I SAY to my husband, "I would like it sometimes that you make dinner" and he hears that I want him to assist me in the kitchen while I make dinner. That does not make any sense........