food. according to me.

On living with a man who cooks

Yesterday evening as I walked home from the MAX, I was distinctly - bordering on urgently - hungry. I had been out in the big, bad world at a job interview and had left - irresponsibly - the refrigerator rather poorly stocked. Half a block away, I smelled garlic, a common enough cooking smell, and began to salivate, wishing that the Squeeze and I were the sort of people who popped in on our neighbors at dinnertime.

When I reached my porch, the smell intensified, and my nose picked up notes of butter and shrimp. When the front door opened, the smell reached out, wrapped itself around my neck like a pelt, and led me inside. I dropped my things and joined the Squeeze in the kitchen, eager to confirm that the lovely smell was indeed associated with my dinner. At it was: an absolutely delicious seafood soup with carrots and onions and corn and potatoes. We mopped it up with warm crusty bread and munched on green salad and washed it down with a dark red wine. Simple food, made with care and eaten in my own dining room is, without qualification, one of the very best things in the world.