Untitled

This one is untitled. Or at least it will start off as untitled until maybe when I reach the end I may find a proper name for this entry.

Yes, I think after almost a year of blogging my heart out (and this is the longest I've ever had a blog) I feel that it's time for a transition.

Now don't get me wrong, creative writing and food will still appear. This is the main objective.  I can't help but want to write what I feel through my taste-buds and up onto your screens.

It's hard to know by now, how many people read my blog, and that too, consistently read it as fans or just drop in from time to time.  What I really hope to find out is what you really think of this blog. I know I've dropped off from time to time, but that's only because I want to give a quality post and not just jibber jabber.

Shall I become more exposed? Share myself more? Are you looking for a constructive blog from a practicing chef? Recipes even? Do you want to see what I look like or what my voice sounds like? Or is this all just lost in the onion that is the cyber world. Hidden beneath the layers of pungent and aggressive blogging sites so strong that really I don't know if I could compete!

I want you to tell me.  Really.  What do you want?

I pour my heart out here.  And my soul.  And maybe...just maybe it's time to share the skill.

Shall I cook for you?

Display my guts and glory on the dinner plate, gingerly garnished for your dining pleasures?

So here it goes:
girlwholikes2cook@gmail.com

Do it.

Say it.

Blow my mind!

HAHA! Okay...yes in time, I'm sure I'll hear from you.  I hope so!

I want to give you more.  And I will. 

xo,

A Girl...

Between

The television on and the hum of the tube silent yet hypnotic. A whisper from the iPod, "Our day will come," by Amy Winehouse lingers on my lips. 

A night is about to begin.

A burning sensation. I want to do something bad. Against the rules. Selfish and self indulgent.

It's time to be wicked. 

We all have those moments. Don't lie. You do. When you just want to cave into your deepest craziest desires when no one is around. When no one can interrupt you. When no one can tell you no, that's too much, stop, slow down, no - I mean it!

A moment of being limitless.

Lawless.

A satin and chiffon aqua blue night gown that goes to the floor is my secret companion. She makes me feel pretty even if she doesn't say it. Pristine sheets, crisp and clean. Tightly tucked with mitered corners get tugged and lashed to the side. A bed, unmade.

How rare is it to be alone? Like really alone? Not expecting any calls, and if you do, your phone is silenced or at least plugged in a charger in another room. Curtains are closed and the lights are off in every room but the one you're in. Unless you're me. The kitchen is always expecting a visit from A Girl who Likes to Cook.

I gave myself a pedicure and the soles of my feet tap lightly as I walk across the cold tiles. I flick the switch and pull out a serving tray my mom gave me. It's wooden made of the bark of some exotic tree in the Amazon. I rest a plate in the middle, it has a chip on the edge where my finger naturally glides over. An endearing flaw.

I had made a batch of cookies earlier that day for this main purpose. To take it to another level of dessert stardom. I cracked open the plastic container and it pops and crackles as it releases it's warm perfume of cinnamon and raisins. A healthy attempt at a sweet biscuit, a psych out, another reason to be more sinfully gluten without guilt. Oatmeal raisin cookies, with toasted almonds. Slightly crisp and darker brown around the edges yet chewy with the sticky bite from the golden raisins. Almonds lend a pleasant crunch.

I lay one pretty side down, and reach for the freezer door. A tub of French vanilla ice cream stands idling waiting. The blast of frozen air runs up my arm which triggers a chain reaction of goosebumps as I wiggle the tub from its frozen dungeon.

I really don't have time to dig around for that ice cream scoop, and who would care if I broke the rules? Bad means breaking rules...even culinary ones. So I reach for a soup spoon instead. I dive deep into the icy container and shovel clumsily a hefty helping of creamy, slightly ivory French vanilla and force it face-first onto the cookie. Spread it out? No, I press it down with another oatmeal raisin cookie and lick the circumference making it smooth and level.  I swear, I'm lady like but when no one is watching...heh

I repeat the process again and place my sexy little oatmeal ice cream sandwiches in the freezer to firm up. No one likes mushy cookies...or melted ice cream.

Will this been enough? Enough to satiate my devilish appetite? I think to myself, now just eating a few scoops of ice cream solo as I ponder the next player to be added to the bedtime lineup.  

I walk over to the kitchen table where a display of store-bought delights, from Twinkies to Passion Flakies. Chocolate bars to marshmallows but there stood in the middle as it to raise up out of the stage, into the spotlight on a platform of glass. The main event. Covered in a dome crystal clear, an angel. 

An angel so soft, delicate and light. She could sprout wings and fly away as I lift her cage up and over her head. I glide my knife through her, clipping her wings, I think she was begging me to do it.  I don't lose a crumb. Angels usually keep their feathers and she was no different.

I lay her down on a dinner plate. She needed the space for what I was about to do next. I sweep myself across the kitchen again and find some awkward looking strawberries sitting by a fruit basket.  I quickly hull them and drop them into a mixing bowl. I find a jar of powdered sugar and tip it over dusting the ruby fruit with a mini mountain of sweet snow. A small puff meanders up to my nose and almost provokes a sneeze, but the sensation subsides. I lick my sugary fingers and agree with myself this will be a delight. I begin to do the deed.

I press with a fork, causing the berries to bleed. I puncture the flesh and the crimson red drips and spreads turning the ivory white pink. I crush and prod, aggressively mincing the sweet hearts into a pulp.  Funny how strawberries remind me of hearts. Sometimes you find a heart that's bitter, tough, may be older or picked from life too soon. The ones in need of sweetening.  Sometimes, you'll find a heart that's just at the right moment, one that's perfectly ripe. Ready to be had. Open to possibility.  I pause and sigh. Funny...Strawberries.

I take the slaughtered hearts and pour them over my innocent angel.  The rouge liquid tumbles over her, staining what was once so pure.  I don't mind. I'm going to enjoy this, and it will all be worth the caloric blast to my hips. Happy once again to be in the midst of decadence and no one else.

But no, I need more. A balance.  Two sweets and no savoury? I scramble to squeeze 'whipped cream from a can' all over my heavenly concoction. Like slapping a tacky polyester bow on a Vera Wang custom designed French lace gown, I swirl a cloud of cream on my not-so-pure dessert and set it aside to head back to the pantry.

If you know me at all personally, and by now I feel if you follow a little with my writing, I have a massive sweet tooth. How it hasn't rotted and caused me pain is beyond me and touch wood...it won't bother me for a long time to come. But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the savoury side of life. I very often in these moments look for comfort in something that no matter how much you start out eating it delicately you end shoveling in your mouth shamelessly!

That weakness is popcorn.  Oh the salty crackle of puffed corn kernels melting in my mouth reminds me of childhood! A time when you can get away with a little careless spills, wiping your greasy fingertips on your jeans or your chin on the back of sleeves. Hmm yes, popcorn feels so guilt-free at times, or so I tell myself.  It's a whole grain, right?

I shimmy a bag of the microwavable kind out of a box at the top of the pantry.  Tippy-toeing as I'm too eager to run back and get a chair to bring me safely to my top-shelf destination. I aggressively unwrap the token white bag from its clear casing and toss it into Chef Mike.  2 minutes and I'm set.

I dress up the Amazonian serving tray with a high-ball glass clinking gently from the ice I dropped inside.  I double shot of rum and top it off with a Pepsi. A hiss and fizzle as the carbonated foam reaches a scary height but manages to keep its composure beneath the rim. 

And soon enough the smell of buttery freshly popped popcorn fills the kitchen and makes me wish I could eat the air.  I breath through my mouth and think edible air! With an index finger and thumb I pull the piping hot bag out of the grips of Chef Mike and pry it open. A buttery steam lashes gently on my face and I soon get excited with anticipation. No time for a bowl. The bag will have to do.

In true restaurant fashion I precariously balance my dirty angel, my 'good for you' sandwiches and bag of popcorn on the jungle tray.  In one hand I hold firmly the concoctions of the evening, and in the other the hem of my turquoise satin gown.  I sway myself up the stairs and around the banister to a room dimly lit and sheets pulled back. The hum of the television still evident as I didn't switch it off when I left the room all those minutes ago.  

I hike up the gown further and climb in. Cushioning myself with fluffy pillows and the remote flipping on a DVD of "The Godfather" (my all-time fave btw) as I settle in. I still hear my iPod whispering in the background, "You're my everything" by Mary J. Blige. 

I press my lips around the icy sandwich as Vito Corleone double kisses Michael and eyes grow wider.  I quickly sop up the melted cream, slurping not to drop a single bit on my satin lover for the night. Since she is the only who sees me in the bare right now. I frantically move on to the next one and Sonny and Clamenza are arguing about Paulie being conveniently unavailable.

The iPod makes a full turn and brings me back to Amy Winehouse. And I begin chomping away at popcorn. The butter richness is a pleasant break from the cinnamon and raisins. Savoury so that it makes my lips smack!  Isolation. Gun shots and the body of Sonny Corleone lays on the pavement by the toll booth, like Swiss cheese. I sink further into bed. I pick the kernels off my dress and devour them without blinking.

Eating in bed may seem a bit silly, maybe a bit of bad form but when you're on your own and you need to really relish a moment, formalities go out the door.  There's an art to it. Choosing the right food for the right purpose, with minimal crumbs or if there's gonna be crumbs, the crumble should be easy enough to fluff off the sheets.  Chewy cookies, not crunchy. Popcorn vs potato chips and cakes are all game!  Cheesecake if you can swing it!

Speaking of cake...

My eyes swell with tears as they always do when I see the scene of Michael and Appelonia, first meeting and falling in love.  I know what the future looks like for them and it's bitter sweet. I then look down at my angel.  A cake light and sweet. No distinct flavour other than the wicked red strawberry mayhem that I splashed all over her.  The mountain of whipped cream now taking a lean to the side. 

Like hot siren red lipstick on porcelain skin, I don't bother using the fork, instead I break into her with my fingers.  Smudging her rouge across the plate, dipping her into the chantilly and place her on my tongue without it brushing my lips.  

Now. This. This is good. This is right. I hike up the sheets to my chest and stare up at the screen.  A car bomb goes off. Appelonia poor girl. And tears roll down my cheek.

A bed...the covers...indulgent wickedness and me.

Between am I. 

xo,

A Girl Who Likes to Cook