Hellchick

This week Len takes the truck and hits the road to drive to Florida. The reason he's driving is because he's hauling a gift for someone that I won't detail here so I don't spoil it.

What this means to me is that for about a week I'm required to cook myself, which is like asking a mentally challenged three year old to do quantum mechanics calculations. A standard conversation between Len and I when he's out of town is as follows:

Him: So'd you eat?

Me: Yeah.

Him: I mean dinner. Did you eat a real dinner?

Me: Yeah.

Him: Tonight? At dinner time? You really ate? You're not just saying that to get me to stop asking, are you?

Me: Yes! I ate.

Him: What'd you have?

Me: Oh...a bowl of cereal. And a cracker, I think I had a cracker, too.

Cooking has just never interested me, whether it's for myself or for other people. Len, however, is a master cook. He says it relaxes him, which is fortunate because when he comes home from work I'm generally not obligated to put a meal on the table -- he says he finds that after having a crappy day, cooking a good meal that someone else can enjoy and praise makes the day much better.

Of course, that works well for me. On the one day that he asked me to cook because he was too tired, I charged into the kitchen with determination in one hand and raw chicken in the other, I threw open the spice cabinet, and then I stood there. And stood there some more. And continued standing there until he came up behind me and said, "you have no idea what to do, do you?"

"Not a clue."

Thank god he's making me meals in tupperware to reheat this week as we speak...