I love eating.
Literally, there is nothing better.
Except for scarves.
And black boots.
(Anything black really.)
And finding the perfect parking spot when it’s raining.
And having a good eyelash day.
And making it down Route 16 without being behind any large trucks.
And morning sex.
Well…sex in general.
(I can’t believe I just put coffee on the same level as sex. Inconceivable!)
But let’s be real for a second. I love eating but I love cooking more than I love eating.
Does that make any sense?
I make everything.
I’m Hungarian, Ukrainian, and Polish.
My husband is Italian and German.
My best friend is Mexican.
I dabble in all cuisines.
And sometimes, I just make shit up and it’s delicious!
And sometimes, it’s not. And my husband tells me when it’s not and I appreciate that.
But he did appreciate this poached pear.
I get some sort of weird satisfaction out of cooking for everyone else but myself. That’s why I can’t cook for two.
I have to cook for at least six at any given meal.
Even though we only have two in our household.
With all the sex, we may be expanding soon so I guess all this is prep work.
Delicious prep work.