I am by far the world’s worst cook.
This was never really a problem for me as my father, whose skills at cooking exceed most modern men, was the one to prepare all the meals in the house when I was growing up. (I much more take after my mother, whose repertoire includes ordering pizza and heating tv-dinners.)
This luxurious lifestyle continued up to when I went away to school, where I had access to a dining center that gradually decreased in deliciousness as the year dragged on and a 24 hour Subway right below my residence. I remember ordering a sandwich there at 3 am, when everything else on campus that I could use my card at was closed, and enlisting the help of two very pleasant and very intoxicated gentlemen (dubbed in legend as ‘sandwhich angels’) who knew what was up, as far as deliciousness went.
My boyfriend and my best friend still often cook for me, and when that doesn’t happen, I always have the option of buying food or scalding the roof of my mouth with a LeanPocket. I know this isn’t very healthy, and recently I’ve been getting more than a few suggestions from my friends if they could ‘teach’ me how to cook. Getting the hint, I attempted to make a simple breakfast of eggs and tea for myself yesterday.
This meal consisted of:
- Eggs – I had four, even though I only showed one
- Green Tea – I found a box of this tea on the ground, walking back to the house one day. It was still sealed, so I didn’t think it was poison.
- Ben’s Fork – which neurotically has ‘BW’ written on a patch of tape he puts around all his utensils.
- A Plate – stolen for me by a worker at a hotel that my parents and I stayed at, who died earlier this year because of an aneurism.
- A Mug – from my mother’s over-populated mug collection.
Don’t worry, my cookbook of equally complicated and delicious treats is sure to come out soon.