Part 2: It's Romantic to Cook for Someone, Right?

It took me some time to decide how to approach this part - as funny as sex can be, it's still a private thing. The internet, on the other hand...isn't.

So. After much deliberation, and true to my nature, I've decided to go with romantic food mishaps and confusions. Besides, aren't initial explorations and experiments about just that?


"The way to a man's heart is through his stomach." - another quote with origins unknown to me, but really, who HASN'T heard that one?


My love of cooking started when I was 12 years old, and figured out that if I was busy cooking dinner for the family, I just wasn't in a position to help with the manual labor going on outside (the house, at that time, was a fixer-upper...to say the least). Shortly after that, I'd heard that quote. In my head, the logic went like this:


I dig men -> they dig food -> skill in the kitchen is a Good Skill To Have


At the time, I was annoyed not to have a boyfriend. Now, I see that it was good to have a few years of practice before the culinary results mattered (there shall be NO comments from the peanut gallery about blueberry pancakes: that mix was defective; the directions were flawed and I was distracted).

At 17, I met the fellow who was to become my first boyfriend (THAT story is definitely a post of its own). As he was a strapping example of all that is fine and good on Kelly Hill (on Ft. Benning, see my Ode to Army Men), he was an Army Man. For some inexplicable reason, I was not permitted to date Army Men. Especially THIS Army Man. His alias here shall be Sundance (yes, as in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid).


Mild mannered darling that I am, I chose to calmly negotiate with my parents (wild, sarcastic laughter here). Eventually, we came to an uneasy truce: I could see Sundance at the dojo and at the house, with my family in attendance. How very Godfather. (more on THAT in yet another post)

Anyway, I made him dinner. Of course, making "him" dinner actually meant making dinner for him, the six of us (my parents, four kids) and a couple of his buddies who were also invited along. In other words, a shitload of food. Sundance was, even in retrospect, one of the greatest guys I've ever known (let alone gotten to date), and he was working hard to win over my parents. He was so busy juggling those balls that he didn't realize that I had made dinner. Assuming that it was my mother's cooking put in front of him, he dutifully ate whatever was given to him. In our home, that meant my father put food on your plate until you begged him to stop. The poor guy was so unwell, that date basically consisted of rolling him into the living room, and watching a movie with my parents. Practically a Valentine's Day commercial, ain't it?


By the time I had another boyfriend, I could cook quite well - and more importantly, was no longer living with my parents full time. That's the good news. The bad news would be that now, if something went wrong, it really was my fault. Or was it?


Sure, it may have been a mistake to make marinara sauce for my Italian boyfriend (though, as we're talking Philly, the proper term is "gravy"). The first batch was too sweet, and the second batch was "good, if you called it something else". (in my defense, I have served that very same sauce to other Italians (including my husband and father in law) and have gotten rave reviews)


It's always a good idea to double check plans with your spouse. I found that out one New Year's Eve when I'd put the boys to bed early, made a phenomenal, romantic dinner, complete with romantic clothing...to find out that the lovely man had invited friends over to share dinner with us...and to find that out as they're walking in the door. (this is me, thanking ALL that is good and decent that the outfit wasn't too romantic)


These days, things are much simpler. I have found that, at least for my life, food and sex don't mix well At All. Utilizing energies for later (as per the approach of the seminar mentioned in the last post) - absolutely. But really. 9 1/2 weeks is a fucking creepy movie. No, I'm not exempting the fridge scene. He's a sadist, she's nuts, end of story. On top of that, who wants to try and be romantic on a full stomach? Just asking for trouble. As far as using sweets (chocolate paints, whipped cream)...really? I wouldn't put whipped cream on steak, why put it on...er...maybe that's a bit too much...eh hem.


This is not to say that others haven't had success with these things - I know folks who swear by them. I've just found that when I personally try combining food with romance...comedy (usually tragic comedy) ensues.


"The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, expecting different results"

- Albert Einstein (possibly paraphrased...it's a blog, not a textbook)


Apparantly, my insanity only goes so far.

Part 3: The Real Truth About Oysters

(just have to point out that my blog's spell check doesn't want to work today - have checked as well as I can and apologize for any spelling errors I missed)