Who Knew?

I am missing cooking. I swear hell must have frozen over, because I don’t think I ever expected to feel this way. If I said this to one of my friends, I am sure they would have assumed this lament was the result of a couple of well enjoyed glasses of wine.

But it is the truth.

I love going out for dinner. In fact, if eating out was an Olympic sport, I’d be a serious contender.

Maybe it is because I cannot. The place I call home at the moment is the size of a postage stamp. I sit up in bed and I am either instantly in the closet, or what they call the kitchen. It simply depends on which way I happen to be looking at the moment. My refrigerator is the size of a large shoebox. Actually a small shoebox. And the living quarters being what they are, I know that whatever I happened to cook, both my room and I would carry the aroma for days on end. So I don’t do it. I go out.

Now I have things I would never dream of for snacking. Baguettes, cheese. Chocolate. It’s a waistlines worst nightmare. However, it was a heck of a lot of fun at first. I could justify my guilty pleasures with the fact that I had no other real option. Going out to eat, two to three times a day is a time consuming endeavour, not to mention all that sitting.

Born in the land of drivethru’s , and having grown up in the age of Starbucks, I am used to having whatever I want, when I want it. I’m used to a refrigerator that can accommodate a Costco run.

Not having a kitchen or a sushi place on my speed dial is a new experience for me. As is a kitchen laden with all my guilty pleasures. Now, as I search for a place to call home, it is the kitchen that means the most to me. I can’t wait to cook. To have my new friends over, and my long-time friends to come and visit. As frustrating as this is at the moment, I am glad for the experience, because without it, I would not have known that I actually enjoyed my own cooking!