Weighing in at 145 pounds with a cell phone in my pocket and pomade in my hair, I am not the most likely candidate for a food obsession worthy of an A&E intervention. No one would guess that when no one is looking, I lick the plate until the Balsamic Vinaigrette dressing has disappeared. Nobody would believe that it was me who ate two slices from someone else's birthday cake an hour before the candles were lit. No would one suspect that, for somebody who lives, breathes, and dreams food, I have no idea how to make it.
Sheltered,
my inability to cook enslaved me to my mother's home, where I was guaranteed a
hot meal and an endless pantry, even after turning 21. As my friends left for
new lives across the country, I stayed in South Jersey, surviving off of my
mother's 12 different ways to cook chicken.
Despite my
love for free poultry, I eventually became restless with suburbia. I worked a
mundane job in a mundane town where the most exciting attraction was CVS. I yearned for a faster life, a more
fitting career and the freedom to be myself. I yearned for nearby Philadelphia.
After months of planning my escape, I found a magazine internship and a summer
sublet in Center City. I finally had the courage to skip town--but not before asking
my mother to pack my lunch.
My
roommates, all three of them, turned out to be sweet young women who didn't
mind the intrusion of my Y chromosome. We laughed, watched movies, and shared
stories whenever our busy schedules allowed. Better than the gab, though, was
their cooking, which they treated me to with enthusiasm. One roommate was
Jewish and another was Iranian, so dinnertime was like a trip to the Middle
East, minus the messy car bombs and Holocaust denial.
After a
few weeks of enjoying the girls' food, conversation and hospitality, I decided
to return the favor by surprising them with a meal. I also hoped to surprise myself, as well, considering I had
never cooked anything beyond eggs in my life. I saw this as my opportunity to
prove once and for all my independence as a foodie.
I roamed
Reading Terminal Market, looking for culinary inspiration. Overwhelmed by the
myriad of choices and the Amish beards, I resolved to simply go to the seafood
section and grab the first thing I saw. It happened to be squid. "Great
choice," I thought. "Who doesn't love calamari?"
However, it's one thing to love calamari--and another to know how to make it. I expected to see tentacles, like octopus, but instead found myself scratching my head at a heap of meaty polygons. Do I boil them or calculate their cosine? I wondered.
Exasperated, I threw the squid in the pan, turned on the stove, threw in some
oil, salt, and whatever other cabinet spices grabbed my eye, and hoped for the
best.
After 15
minutes, the squid retained the same pale, lifeless, unappetizing hue as when I
started. I set the pan aside in
disgust, turned off the stove and tried to conjure a plan B. Just as I started praying for some
Steak-umms, the sound of sizzling stole my breath. I picked the pan of polygons
back up and yelped in horror. I
had set the hot pan on the counter. When I lifted it up, a black, circular burn
mark stared back, taunting me from the white marble.
After
several minutes of cursing the squid, the stove, and my wretched life, I had to
think fast. How would I explain this tragedy to the roommates? I instinctively
grabbed a vase of flowers from the kitchen windowsill and placed it over the
burn. But even in my panic I knew that was ridiculous. I spotted a food
processor and placed it there instead. I then concocted an elaborate
explanation about how the food processor must have experienced a powerful
electric surge, overheated and destroyed the countertop beneath it, unbeknownst
to any of us. The expensive counter was ruined, yes, but at least we had our
lives--and each other!
My
roommates didn't believe that flimsy fairy tale, and I was forced to admit what
I had done. Suddenly to them I was no longer the cute little gender anomaly of
the house, but instead proof that all men are the same--scheming, lying, and
helpless, just like their ex-boyfriends. Apparently the landlord agreed,
leaving me with an ungodly repair bill that wiped out my savings and sent me
back to South Jersey at the end of the summer.
A few
years--and paychecks--later, I once again live in Philadelphia. And yes, when no
one is looking, I still lick the plate clean. (I make out with it if Kraft's
Asian Sesame sauce is involved) This time, however, I have yet to touch the
stove. My mother may have raised a glutton, but she didn't raise no fool.
Gerry Christopher Johnson lives and eats, but does not
cook, in Germantown.