I don’t really enjoy cooking at the best of times—about every other holiday season I get the urge to bake, but if I sit for a while, that too passes. I like to eat (this statement should be self-evident), but I don’t get the creative thrill from spending hours on my feet in the kitchen. There are far, far more things I’d rather be doing, and when it comes to creative projects, I like it when the thing I make doesn’t disappear within a day or so (no matter how much it was enjoyed).
So while Ken’s been gone, I slowly got to the point where salad or sandwiches were the most elaborate things I was putting together in the kitchen (note: I don’t believe in, or eat, non-elaborate sandwiches. If I’m going to make one, I’m going to make a loaded one, with fresh spinach and tomatoes and pepperoncinis and gods know what else). Now that he’s home, we hauled out the recipes and forced ourselves to actually consider cooking again. (Since neither of us enjoy the process, we either do it together or take turns/negotiate other chores.)
Last night we make sausage and peppers from a recipe I snerched from my mom the last time I was home. It didn’t taste like I remembered when she’d make it, but it was close, and it was also easy and healthy (served over brown rice with a side salad), so it’s a keeper. While I was there (and Ken was overseeing the actual cooking parts), I also made a balsamic vinaigrette, which I’d been meaning to do for ages, and cut up a canteloupe, and we both did dishes.
I can’t say it was wildly exciting, but I did come away with a comfortable sense of accomplishment. Can’t beat that!