There are good reasons that most men don’t cook – and if I have offended any men with that broad generalization, let me rephrase it; there are good reasons why I don’t cook.
When I was young and single, my refrigerator would remain bare except for a package of hot dogs and maybe a container of bologna. The freezer compartment, if it contained anything other than ice, might house two or three frozen dinners that had been there for several months. If there was any food in the pantry, it most certainly wouldn’t have consisted of anything more than a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup that I always kept in case I caught the flu or a natural disaster happened, such as a tornado, earthquake or hurricane. This simplicity of foodstuff was because: 1) there would always be a fast food outlet within five minutes of my home and 2) every single time in my life that I have tried to cook has resulted in a charred inedible clump.
This past week, my nephew spent several nights in our home, while his mother was in the local hospital recovering from surgery. He is from out of state and I haven’t seen him very often over the past few years so it was a joy to have him here, even if the circumstances were less than pleasant. My wife was happy to cook a big breakfast for him every morning, before he left for the hospital, and she prepared a delicious spread for him each evening when he returned. I was the beneficiary of the extraordinary culinary creations by gaining a few additional pounds. One evening, however, Judy was going to a meeting and wouldn’t be home when my nephew was scheduled to return, but she wanted to make all the food for that evening so that I could easily prepare the meal when our houseguest returned. She had baked fresh bread, prepared a magnificent seven-layer salad and readied one of her world-famous dishes of lasagna for me to bake that evening. “Now,” she began with the instructions, “all you have to do is preheat the oven to 350 degrees, remove the lasagna dish from the refrigerator, and bake for 30 minutes.”
“Should I write this down?” I asked.
“Surely you can remember three things. Oh, you need to let the lasagna sit out at room temperature for 30 minutes before you put it in the oven.”
I went and got my paper and pencil.
When my nephew returned around 6:00 p.m., Judy had already left for her meeting. I told him of the plans for supper, retrieved the lasagna dish from the refrigerator and set it on the counter for the obligatory ‘30 minutes at room temperature.’ Noticing the aluminum foil covering the dish, and not having received instructions on whether or not to remove it, I quickly called my wife to see if the foil should be removed or left intact. “Leave it on,” was her reply. I could hear her eyes rolling on the other end.
Thirty minutes later, I put the lasagna in the oven and set the timer. When it was done, I removed the hot dish, and called my nephew for supper. I then proceeded to pour drinks, slice the freshly baked bread, and remove the salad from the refrigerator. I had put everything on the table and my nephew was seated and ready to eat. I uncovered the aluminum foil from the salad to discover an uncooked baking dish of… lasagna. What the @#$%?
Dumbfounded, I uncovered the warm dish to find a freshly baked, seven layer salad.
There are good reasons why I don’t cook.
