I Don't Cook.

Like, ever.  I can count on one hand, with two fingers, the number of times I've made dinner for my husband and that includes the twenty months we lived together before we got married... almost 5 years ago.  Yup.  One was chicken patty sandwiches with french fries.   The second was garlic chicken, that I actually had to marinate overnight, with rice.  2 meals in 6 and a half years. 

Luckily, my husband cooks.  And I mean he COOKS.  Homemade pizza, pastas, amazing tomato sauces, and the best seasoned grilled chicken ever.  He has full command of the spice rack.  Rosemary, thyme, basil...  a bunch I don't know.  He uses them all masterfully.  He's like my own personal (insert name of celebrity chef here, because I don't even know any of them...  how about the blonde one that's pretty cute?  I'll take him.).  So a couple of times a week we eat an amazing meal that's so very tasty while we push dogs down off the couch we're sitting on because, though we're 31 and 32, we live like we're 22.  The amazing thing is...  he can just do it.  Without thinking, without classes...  it's just innate.  Good Will Cooking.  That's him.

Luckily for me, the only skill he has that surpasses his cooking is his skill in the bedroom.  I am a deeply satisfied and overly plump, lucky, lucky lady.    But don't feel too badly for him.  The bedroom is the one place I CAN cook. 

On that bit of TMI, I bid you goodnight...  Hamlet's Mistress


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