What Type of Cook Do I Aspire to Be?

Not Rachael Ray.

Or that Pioneer Chick.

Or Gordon Ramsay.

Or the cute-as-hell foodie bros I discovered on YouTube.

My aspiration involves a fictional character: Carol, from The Walking Dead. (You know, minus the violent husband, dead child, and overall zombie apocalypse world in which she lives.)

Here she is gathering guns and talking about baking cookies. Because why not? (If you're reading via email, click through to see the video.)



See, Carol is the perfect combination of badass feminist and kick-ass cook. She is the one who will fix you something to eat when you stop by her house and then slay you without giving it a second thought if you get bitten by a walker. Or if she suspects that you have serial killer potential. Even if you're a kid.

I have never "fixed" someone something to eat. "Let me just fix you something to eat." Sounds all easy, breezy, there's-no-way-I-might-give-you-food-poisoning casual, and I'm just not there. About all I could manage with such insouciance is boiling pasta or a bag of 10-minute rice. And while the rice is straightforward, I'll forever be thinking you're judging my pasta because let's face it: not everyone's definition of al dente is the same. 

One of the many reasons I will never own a home is because of the expectation people can drop by and I'll be able to "fix" them something to eat, to offer sustenance, to whip up something with no trouble like most people can do. Or at least people like my mom. 

I may have a well-stocked pantry, but mentally, I am not equipped for this. Cooking for me will likely always involve stress and anxiety, and those two things are best done in private, not while my unexpected house guests are getting antsy on my living room couch and taking bets regarding the last time I dusted and vacuumed. If I ever have a dinner party (lol), it will be obsessively planned and the meal will consist of something incredibly safe and that I prepare ahead of time and just warm up or whatever.

The good news? No one expects you to fix them something to eat when they walk into a studio apartment, which is where I currently dwell. 

They expect take-out. 

And bagged things, like nuts and chips. 

Maybe chocolate. 

Or wine.

In a box.

And to eat said takeout etc. cross legged on the floor or whilst balancing paper plates on their laps as they sit on the edge of my bed, pretending the whole time it's NOT my bed. (The latter of which can be awkward, depending on the guest. This is why I meet my accountant down the street at the local Mickey Dee's)

So Carol is my goal, my aspiration, my inspiration. The cooking part, anyway. And the being all tough and badass. Not the killing part. Or tormenting children part.

Had you worried, didn't I? 

Well, this next bit won't help.

I may or may not have wielded my chef knife in various badass Carol-killing-walker poses while getting ready to do some veggie dicing. (ADMIT IT YOU HAVE TOO.)

I took some pics.

I may have had a little too much fun doing it.

Here's a Carol-inspired pose IN MY KITCHEN. 

Now the eyes look a little less playful...

Now, we're getting bored with our work...

And now, I'll forever haunt your dreams. 

You're welcome.

PS. A word of caution: If you decide to take pics like these, delete them from your phone before going out. TRUST ME.

Oh, what I do for this culinary dream o'mine...