Diva
04-04-02, 09:15PM
Hey Good Looking, What's Cooking?
Frozen food or take out. My pots and pans are clean in my home. Basically from lack of use. Blame my dad. When I was growing up, he did all the cooking. He was a chef. He was more than that. We would go into a restaurant and he would bet the owner that he could guess the 'secret' ingredient. He always won. Then he would recreate the exact dish at home. He pissed off a lot of people. But it's better to be pissed off than pissed on, right? We used to have block parties all the time. My dad was always expected to bring the main dish. He loved to cook, so there were always left-overs. The neighbors would fight over who got what. When I go on dates the guys always compliment the fact that I eat like a real person. Could we stick to my eyes, please... It makes me felt like a truck driver. Chow down! My dad was six foot three inches and weighed over three hundred pounds. When he said eat... you ate. There was no 'think of the starving children bla bla...' guilt trip. Somewhere there's some starving kid bitching to Sally Struthers about me. Either that or they're trying to catch the crumbs that fall out of that broad's mouth. When I was eight years old, my dad taught me to cook scrambled eggs. That was the last thing he ever taught me. After that it was, "don't worry, tiger, I'll cook the meals. I'll move in and do all the cooking for you and your husband." Fine by me. he loved kids, so that was covered too. I was going to live every Jewish chick's dream. Then he had to go and die on me. I always thought that a man's place was in the kitchen. I didn't learn the 'reality' of this until years later. Guys don't cook. I'm screwed. I think my dad saw my lack of talents even then. My instant oatmeal has hour different consistencies. I remember this one guy who kept asking me to bake him a cake. I finally broke down and bought the boxes and started mixing. It was more lopsided than a woman with a mastectomy. The tower of Pisa started asking for royalties. Well, until they tasted it, that is. Then they just wanted a disclaimer that it was not a replica in any way. He ate it up, though. My friend still teases me about my hard boiled eggs 'incident'. We were chatting away when I noticed a smell. The first question always asked is, "What are you cooking?" I told her hard boiled eggs. "How long have they been in there?" About a half hour. Needless to say, the pot was ruined and McDonalds welcomed me with open arms. When I moved the first thing she asked was, "Is it near a fire station?" Bitch. I can make pasta. Sort of. Cereal. Toas... Ummm. Shit
Frozen food or take out. My pots and pans are clean in my home. Basically from lack of use. Blame my dad. When I was growing up, he did all the cooking. He was a chef. He was more than that. We would go into a restaurant and he would bet the owner that he could guess the 'secret' ingredient. He always won. Then he would recreate the exact dish at home. He pissed off a lot of people. But it's better to be pissed off than pissed on, right? We used to have block parties all the time. My dad was always expected to bring the main dish. He loved to cook, so there were always left-overs. The neighbors would fight over who got what. When I go on dates the guys always compliment the fact that I eat like a real person. Could we stick to my eyes, please... It makes me felt like a truck driver. Chow down! My dad was six foot three inches and weighed over three hundred pounds. When he said eat... you ate. There was no 'think of the starving children bla bla...' guilt trip. Somewhere there's some starving kid bitching to Sally Struthers about me. Either that or they're trying to catch the crumbs that fall out of that broad's mouth. When I was eight years old, my dad taught me to cook scrambled eggs. That was the last thing he ever taught me. After that it was, "don't worry, tiger, I'll cook the meals. I'll move in and do all the cooking for you and your husband." Fine by me. he loved kids, so that was covered too. I was going to live every Jewish chick's dream. Then he had to go and die on me. I always thought that a man's place was in the kitchen. I didn't learn the 'reality' of this until years later. Guys don't cook. I'm screwed. I think my dad saw my lack of talents even then. My instant oatmeal has hour different consistencies. I remember this one guy who kept asking me to bake him a cake. I finally broke down and bought the boxes and started mixing. It was more lopsided than a woman with a mastectomy. The tower of Pisa started asking for royalties. Well, until they tasted it, that is. Then they just wanted a disclaimer that it was not a replica in any way. He ate it up, though. My friend still teases me about my hard boiled eggs 'incident'. We were chatting away when I noticed a smell. The first question always asked is, "What are you cooking?" I told her hard boiled eggs. "How long have they been in there?" About a half hour. Needless to say, the pot was ruined and McDonalds welcomed me with open arms. When I moved the first thing she asked was, "Is it near a fire station?" Bitch. I can make pasta. Sort of. Cereal. Toas... Ummm. Shit