No soup for you!

If you remember that line from Seinfeld in the 90's, welcome to the we're-not-over-the-hill-but-it's-within-sight club. This post is not about impending middle age (which I've decided begins at some point between 45 and 50, more or less) but full disclosure on a subject that I know many other bloggers love.

Cooking.

Alas, anything more complicated than can meet opener, pasta meet pot is foreign to me. Oh sure, I love cookbooks, the heady romance of them. Words like "remoulade", "reduction" and "rotisserie" patter on the ears like soft rain. There is a great, evident logic about these books: you follow the directions, you make stuff that tastes pretty good, and if you prepare enough of it you can share it with people you like.

C'est tres difficile, pour moi. Quelle horror!

However, in spite of (because of?) my fumbling efforts to "make food", I like to watch cooking shows. Those people are so firmly in charge of what's going on; they officially Know What They're Doing. Throw in the simmering sauces, steaming stews and syrupy sweets (I swear to God I can smell them through the tv) and it's A Good Thing (thank you, Mah-tha).

These celebrites sport copper cookware, fancy implements and kitchens big enough to host the Rockettes (plus ones) at the holidays. If I had those things at my disposal, I guarantee you: we'd still be eating chili con Cheez-Wiz. But the music would be spinning (I am a damn fine dj on the fly), the bubbly would bubble and the monkeyshines would be memorable.

In the best of all possible words I'd hire celebrity chef Rocco di Spirito. He'd make sure we all eat, mangia mangia style. Everybody loves Italian! Especially when it looks like Rocco.

Now THAT I could cook with.