now you're cooking with gas

Guy Incognito, my boyfriend kind of person and all-around swell fellow, tells me I can cook.

"You can cook," he says.

No, I can't, I tell him.

"I totally can't," I say.

I can follow a recipe in a competent way that does not result in blood poisoning for blocks around, but he is the cook in the family. He can look at my pantry with its crumpled plastic bag with three beans in, a hunk of four-day-old cheese, and a handful of oatmeal and create a gourmet meal that is nutritious, delicious, and makes me want to jump him.

He spends twenty minutes in the kitchen and then swoops into the living room to set a fancy plate in front of me, and I say "Gosh, I could have sworn I didn't have sirloin tips in the house. Pass me the caviar-enrobed foie gras?"

He's kind of a miracle worker.

Me, though. I am faced with the flotsam and jetsam of my pantry, the end result of a shopping trip that had me flying down the aisles, scooping up things that sounded like they'd be the key ingredient in some exciting dish which I would create out of thin air, but in the cold harsh reality of my kitchen, make no sense.

I look in the cabinet, hungry, growly, and bereft, and I am forced to say to myself, excuse me, self? Self? Hello, self! Hi. Yes. Here is a question for you, and I think it is a very good question. What on earth possessed you to buy canned asparagus? Because asparagus, in a can? That's kind of nasty. And excuse me, but when have you ever eaten a cannelli bean? And you know, I'm pretty sure you have never in your life employed cornstarch, and when have you ever been moved to add water chestnuts to a dish? That's right – never. And you know wha- ooh, pickles!

Crunch.

What I'm trying to say, here, is that I am not so much an iron chef. But I can order in Thai like a motherfucker.

What appeals to me about the Core plan is that it feels kind of like Weight Watchers for grownups. There's no counting on your fingers and spending a whole day eating hot chocolate mix right out of the packet and spoonfuls of frosting and because you came in under points, you still had an awesomely awesome day, oh no.

Which is actually kind of awesome, now that I think about it.

On Core you are eating Wholesome, Unprocessed Whole Foods and Grains, Lean Proteins, and Good Fats (can you tell I read the little book? I read the hell out of that little book). Which of course is so nutritious, and so good for you! Hooray!

The problem is that Wholesome, Unprocessed Whole Foods rarely come in handy plastic trays, wrapped in burritos that are frozen, or on the menu of your local chain fast food restaurant, or on a Thai menu from which I can order the fuck out of. Core means planning and shopping and cooking. And planning means angst and shopping means irritation and cooking means crying – but just a little! tiny, tiny tears – in my house.

So Core was starting to look, for awhile, like maybe heating up a can of beans and poking a fork into it. This one's for the gipper! (where gipper = a happy and healthy me – (happy x self pity)).

Except, you know, I am not doing this in a glorious quest for a brand new body which I will never have and some kind of imaginary unlimited superhotness which will make all the problems in my life go poof! And happiness come strolling down my walkway, whistling a cheerful tune, oh no.

Okay, fine, that's part of it. I am allowed my fantasies, okay?

I am doing this really and true because I want health. I quit smoking (even though I looked really kind of sexy when I smoked) for health, and I am going to the gym five days a week and kicking my goddamn ass for health, and I am going to plan and shop and cook, by god, for my health. And also imaginary unlimited superhotness. And oh yeah, health.

This entry was posted by anne, on Saturday, January 22, 2005. You can leave your response.