Cooking and Writing

I don't get cooking and yet I do.

Tonight, I had set myself up to cook. I wanted a friend of mine to come round to meet Alex, but I knew there was a possibility Kevin might not be there. Mostly he cooks, so I don't have to. When I was in Britain, Sainsbury's, Waitrose and Marks and Sparks were kind enough to cook for me, so it was never an issue.

I don't enjoy it. The best I ever get out of it is a sense of relief sometimes when the thing is edible at the end of the process. I want people who come to my house to be fed, and be happy about what they are eating, I just don't get any personal satisfaction from the cooking of same.
Yet I know people who really do engage with the art and seem to like just doing it. See I get that, because I see a reflection of it in writing. I like writing, I like just doing it. I love the feeling of the blending of the words, sometimes I feel satisfied with the end product. The positive response of others is nice, but not necessary, because I have enjoyed the process and I can often savour some of it myself.
The palette of words produces colour and emotion. I love the recipes of style.

But what of the cooking?
No-one was sick.
I decided to make a dish Sleepy made last year. I seemed to have plenty of vegetables, I found a dish big enough.
Then the first obstacle. I only ever cook things in the toaster oven, but for this I needed the grown up one. Sadly, this, it seems, operates in Fahrenheit. When my friend arrived, we managed to work out the conversion.

The end was decent. It's a forgiving recipe, with the cardammom, the roast garlic and then lemons. Oh yes, I was convinced that SLeepy had used quarters of lemons. When Kev got home and saw this, he was surprised, and pointed out that SLeepy had actually used yellow peppers.
Oops. But it did taste good.

Cooking for me is a chore, writing is a pleasure.
Cooking is a sociable activity, writing a solitary one.
Cooking - I wish I liked it.
But I don't.