Rice, chicken, beans.
Rice and beans and chicken, oh my!
Question: “What’s for dinner?” Answer: Rice and beans and chicken.
Rice and beans and chicken… Okay I’m taking this too far, but gosh darn it if I cook this meal one more time I’m gonna throw a pot.
It’s not that I’m incapable or disinterested in cooking anything else. It’s not that my taste buds are dead or boring party poopers. So what’s my freaking problem?! Why is it that I’m borderline obsessed with collecting new recipes when I actually attempt none of them? At any given time my phone gallery will have screenshots of recipes and accompanying photos, photos from magazines I peruse in the grocery and bookstore. My home will have food magazines, hand written recipes and recipe cards collected from many shopping trips. Yet when I’m confronted with the dinner question I always fall back to my same old reliables. Obviously rice, beans and chicken isn’t the only thing I make, but it might as well be as far as any food loving, cooking person is concerned.
I want to be domesticated damn it. I want people to want to come over to my house to eat food. I want them to tell me it was delicious. I want them to ask where I got the idea. I want them to ask about my methods and ingredients. I want to have a party in my mouth when I taste the food that I’ve worked hard on with my own two hands.
But alas, no one comes to my house for food. Company, yes. Laughs and drinks, yes. A movie, yes. Food? It’s bordering on hell no. No one asks me about my methods in a good way. They ask me about my methods in a What-went-wrong? way. There’s never a party in my mouth after hours of effort put into shopping and cooking, just a disappointed “Wtf happened? It should taste way better than this.”
I’m tired of this. How can I ever throw an epic dinner party at this rate?
A few months ago I made a pact with myself to try out two new recipes every month as part of my self improvement, personal growth plan. You want to know, dear Reader, how long it lasted? My embarrassing answer is I never fulfilled a single month’s quota. I know. I know. My head is bowed in shame as we speak and I tell you all of this to shame myself publically. I deserve it. I love food. I want to cook, but something isn’t connecting. Somewhere in my mind or the universe some chain is broken or some wired fried, someone has tripped over a cord and unplugged the necessary power source of motivation. I am lost.
I can decorate the hell out of a house but cooking is the thorn in my side, the stone in my shoe. Help! Does anyone else suffer from this malady and do you have any words of support or free pyschotherapy to offer? What’s helped you?