My Love and I have one thing in common: Love of food.

My Love has a professional kitchen. Restaurant 6-burner. Double convection ovens. Copper pots and pans from Paris. Every useful kitchen gadget known to woman.

I love to cook, but I’ve been cursed to landlord stoves in cheap apartments and microwaves in jobsite doublewides.

I’m in heaven.

The coolest thing in her kitchen: A squirter on her sink. A squirtgun that never runs out of water! My inner 6-year-old overwhelmed me the first time I saw it. She’s cute in a wet T-shirt. She’s cute when she’s mad. She’s seriously cute when she’s mad in a wet T-shirt.

We cook well together, except for one thing: I clean up as I go. She lets everything stack up in the sink, on the counter, on the stove, on the cutting board, … Flour bin uncovered, olive oil uncorked, mustard jar open, salt box on the back of the stove …

This may not seem like a serious problem. She puts something down, I clean it up, right?

Wrong. She reaches for the spoon or the spatula without looking. And it’s not there. Because I’ve cleaned it and put it away. Meltdown.

She is very serious about her coffee.

The first time I made her coffee, it took me three tries before she would even taste it.

Then there’s her brass lever-action espresso machine.

If you like to cook, New York is the promised land.

Silver Moon Bakery is around the corner from my apartment. (Here’s a Times article about Silver Moon.) My Love is addicted to the cheddar chive brioche. I’m addicted to just about everything, but particularly the pain ordinaire.

Then there’s Citarella. Gorgeous fish and seafood. Unbelievable meats, from rabbit to prime bone-in ribeye.

And Fairway.

My corner grocery chain is Westside Market.


4 thoughts on “Cooking

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