Once upon a time A_ was a professional chef. He cooked fancy food in a fancy restaurant. He no longer cooks professionally, but he still makes amazing things for me to eat. He whips up scones out of thin air and does a mean bbq. He brulees sweet creamy goodness and whispers sweet nothings to chicken.
I blame him for being fat - I was thin as a child.
Growing up, my mom was not a very good cook. She had a few things that she cooked really well, but then she'd try to experiment and end up with a rebellion against her neon orange meatballs. I have inherited this from her.
I can cook about four things really, really well: curry, chili, and apple pie.
Ok, that was only three. Pathetic.
The first time that A_ came to my apartment, I cooked dinner. My roommate made an amazing tequila lime chicken and I had listened halfheartedly to his directions. When A_sat down to eat I spooned out rubber in a bath of tequila. It was straight up nasty. But he took a bite, choked a little on the alcohol and told me it was good. I took a bite and suggested we order a pizza.
Luckily I had made pie for dessert.
Tonight I attempted to make chicken. Once again, it was disgusting. I don't know why I can't just make it simply, but I can't. I have to experiment and it always ends poorly. Its ridiculous - who can't make chicken?
A_ took a bite and tried to be nice, but then admitted it was not actually edible.
So A_ needs to heal quickly. Otherwise we will both starve.