Cooking for just me was easy. If I dug around in the pantry long enough, I could find something suitable for human consumption and be content. I could eat leftover rice with soy sauce and a side of bacon. I could eat an apple with peanut butter and a can of tuna (Yeah.. straight from the can. Don’t judge me).
But cooking for a husband is an entirely new challenge. No longer can I make everything taste like lemon, garlic, and wine. Because, much to my horror, there is someone in this world who doesn’t like these 3 things. And I married him.* Thus begun my forced creativity in the kitchen.
So, Luke tells everyone I am the best cook in the world. He generously forgives and forgets the cornmeal breaded pork chops (cornmeal is for fish, I guess), the mushy cauliflower (I thought I could make it taste like potatoes?) and the undercooked, mushy hamburgers/wheat bread/cornbread. He’s sweet.
So this blog is chronicling my learning experience as I attempt fierce homemaking. And Luke has been so brave.
I think the one thing that Luke actually does fear is that I will follow through with my promise to make him a shirt that says, “Somebody with a sewing machine loves me.”
*Just so you know, my husband rocks my face off, and I marrying him was not at all to my horror.
Keeping on (keeping on),