That’s Not Where You Wear an Oven Mitt

It’s a true story that when I first walked into my now-husband’s apartment for the first time that I thought perhaps he’d posted his match.com profile under the wrong sexual orientation. I had no awareness of men who could decorate or cook who didn’t also pitch for their home team.

My experience with men trying to impress me with domestic arts had not run smooth. This might have been fine with me if these same men could also build cabins out of a single fallen tree or replace my timing belt, but that species was a rarity in Northern California and I wasn’t interested in relocating to the place where they harvest men for the Bounty wrappers.

No, the men who found me tended to be those who were proud they could pour cereal or the ones who baked cheese onto corn chips and called it “Nachos a La Rex.” Or they were the ones who thought that being able to twist the cap off a beer bottle with their forearm was the pinnacle of mankind’s contribution to the culinary arts. There was the one gentleman who fancied himself a connoisseur of fine foods by virtue of his exhaustive research to discover which of the discount Chinese food buffets would let you get away with carting off the largest portions. If only I’d found Eau du Eggroll an aphrodisiac.

While I certainly forgave my little brother for the time he baked the noodles for the tuna casserole instead of boiling them, that’s because that sort of comestible faux pas is charming when one is six. It loses its charm once the chef in question has a master’s degree and twenty grand in student loan debt. If you have the mental faculty to finish a degree from a higher learning institution, then I think it’s reasonable to expect that you not find yourself in cold sweat when faced with the daunting instructions involved in the preparation of something like an omelet. 1. Beat 4 eggs. 2. Pour into pan. 3. Sprinkle on cheese. 4. Don’t ignite kitchen. It’s not irrational to assume that someone who passed the exit exams for their education not need a supplemental insurance policy to make breakfast.

So it was with wariness and trepidation that I stepped into that attractively appointed apartment, scented by the tantalizing fragrance of Chicken Marsala. Surely this was not someone who could possibly be interested in me for my sizable cantilevering. How wrong I was, as I discovered a few hours later.

And on the second date, too. Totally had to have been the cooking.

Image credit Michal Zacharzewski.