Kitchen Wench

The things you learn about a person when you actually live with them. Oh, I know, everybody told me that before I moved in with Lee. Well, I’m on day two and here’s what I’ve learned.

If left unattended, Lee will buy chunky peanut butter and single-ply toilet tissue.

Well. This has to stop. For one thing, I didn’t even know they still made single-ply toilet paper. Even public restrooms don’t stoop that low. And it is certainly not a cost-saving device when I need half a roll to wipe my ass.

Secondly, chunky peanut butter?! You think after four years of knowing somebody, you’d know they were a Chunky, but no. Peanut butter choice is a way of dividing the population into vast and probably meaningless categories: creamy, chunky, and deathly allergic to peanuts. I am a die-hard creamy peanut butter eater. At the age of seven, when my grandma served me chunky peanut butter on toast, I spent 20 minutes carefully picking out all the little peanut pieces. That’s dedication. (Or simply an early sign of anal rententiveness.)

To me, peanut butter and peanuts are two distinct flavors and although peanut butter is derived from peanuts, I don’t want the tastes mingled together in my mouth. Also, I hate that mealy texture plain peanuts leave in my mouth. Unless they’re sprinkled over pad thai, because it’s a nice contrast to the soft, chewy rice noodles. But, I digress. The bottom line is that it’s going to get awful hard to buy peanut butter around here; unless we want to eat out of separate jars, somebody is going to lose.

Lee and I went to the supermarket on Tuesday and, after having conceded defeat on the peanut butter issue (until this jar is empty anyway), I was determined to not be saddled with some undesirable jam. It was then that I revealed my true jelly snob colors: I don’t like strawberry, raspberry, and least of all, grape jam. I like black cherry. And not much else, unless it’s one of those jams you pair with savory foods, like mint, apple, current, or mango chutney.

“How about strawberry rhubarb?” Lee asked. “You have to like strawberry rhubarb.”

“I like strawberry rhubarb… in… pie.” The truth is, strawberries and I have never gotten along, mostly because fresh ones give me hives, and I can’t lift my grudge for even the most innocent of preserves.  Lee shot me a very disappointed look.

In the end, we each picked our own flavor of jam.  At least we both like whole wheat bread.

I am sitting in my living room watching a Paula Dean marathon on the Food Network. My hope is that this festival of butter, eggs, mayonaise, and southern charm will culminate with “Paula’s European Vacation”, as I think that watching Paula eat her way across Europe for the first time will probably be fattening and entertaining.

I’ve been watching an awful lot of the Food Network lately, but the truth of the matter is, I haven’t cooked anything since those oatmeal cookies, save a delicious grilled Rachel sandwich. Ever since being spit out from my undergraduate institution last month, I’ve been trying to get my life reorganized for this rude entry into “The Real World.” Right now, that means being preoccupied with money (or lack thereof) until my first paycheck, as well as packing up everything I own in preparation for moving. This doesn’t leave me a lot of time or energy to cook, though I have obsessed over microwaves, glassware, and trying to fit a mandolin slicer into my check-in luggage.

Instead of creating, I have been consuming (albeit in moderation), but frankly, it’s just not the same. Good food is delicious, but I feel so… passive. And a little bit bored. Expect some changes in this blog in the upcoming weeks–it’s going to expand and change shape as I adjust to urban living, eating out on the cheap, dollar-streching, and cooking dinner for two most nights of the week. I’m pretty excited about getting back into a rhythm and getting creative–but that seems pretty far away at the moment.

In the meantime, it’s back to watching Paula find 101 uses for the canned biscuit.