I don’t cook, clean and only wash my clothes when I’m out of underwear since that’s the only article of clothing one cannot wear twice.
Anyway, probably TMI time. But I’m preparing you for a not-so-flattering picture of myself, which is consistent with this entire blog pretty much.
To the best of my knowledge, I don’t pretend to be anything I’m not. Which is a bit of a disappointment since I’m not much in the realm of fascinating or even slightly interesting people in this world. Ex-software engineer, recluse, pothead, selfish about my life and my time. I can make it through social events all right and no one would be the wiser about who I am underneath. It’s only when people take the next step towards something akin to friendship that they see snippets of the real me, and rarely do they stay.
About five years ago a buddy of Hubby’s wanted us over for dinner and bridge since his wife was learning to play bridge. Hubby and I are pretty good bridge players. She cooked us a wonderful meal of organic veggies, and fresh fruit with whipped cream for dessert. She was a really talented potter and had a beautiful studio. On the walls of their home were photographs she had taken, and other decorations that made it really colorful and inviting. We had a good time that night.
Well, social protocol says that if someone invites you over, it’s your turn to invite them over. Again, I don’t cook or clean, which means that our entire house is filled with the crap that houses get filled with when they’re not cleaned: Dog hair, dirt, fingernail clippings, shoes, jackets, dusty board games sitting on the dining room table, stains on the carpets that look like ancient dog vomit, pee or diarrhea, kitchen floor crusty with who-knows-what, toilets from hell.
Anyway, to make a long story short, we didn’t hear from them for a while, meaning it was “our turn” to invite them over. Hubby knows how much I love entertaining and how much I give a shit about social protocol, so he didn’t bring the subject up for about six months.
Then one day he asked me if I’d be willing to cook the only dish I know how to make. It’s a Korean dish that my family called “Hot Meat”. It consists of a nicely marbled hunk of pot roast, cut up into stew-sized pieces, and then cooked in soy sauce, garlic, ginger, jalapenos, and the juice from the jalapenos. When it’s done perfectly, the meat melts in your mouth and is popping with a salty, spicy taste. It’s a fatty and salty decadence. I would make it every year for our project Christmas potluck. Since most of the people I worked with were Indian, our potluck was very international so it fit in nicely with the other food.
I agreed to make this dish as a treat for our guests-to-be.
“We’re vegetarians,” Hubby’s buddy informed him in an email reply.
“Ok, forget it then,” was my response. Cooking is one of the things I was forced to do as a child (as my Watcher mind takes note). Delighting in it is one of the many things that I hope I can experience one day. But right now I absolutely hate it with a passion.
“Was it something I said?” Asked Hubby’s dumbfounded friend.
I don’t think I responded to him. I had nothing at all against them, I just really only know one (non-vegetarian) dish and everything else I cook is literally inedible crap.
About a year later, we ran into this couple at a party and talked, and I think Hubby convinced them to come over and he’d do the entertaining. They came out of courtesy, but we never saw them again.
Daily Prompt: When was the last time you were ready to throw in the proverbial towel? Did you end up letting go, or decided to fight on anyway?